Rising from Ashes
by BanterHorse
Summary: A young man down on his luck discovers a ruined Firebird in a junkyard near San Francisco. Taking it upon himself to restore the vehicle to it's former glory, he slowly uncovers a lost, embittered soul; stripped of her dignity and broken by a war without end. Can this being be trusted? Or is she a devil in disguise? Shatter centric, set after the 2018 Bumblebee movie.
1. The Final Curtain

**The Final Curtain**

** Shatter**

The warehouse the humans had given us was passable. It was a far cry from my personal quarters in Kaon, but I had not expected much from these bestial primitives in the first instance. Myself and Dropkick had only used it for a quick recharge or partake of our dwindling supply of energon cubes.

This lunar cycle, two additional guests had made an appearance. Namely; the Autobot renegade B-127, and the human scientist designated Powell. The former was suspended from the rafters by a length of heavy duty steel chains, whilst the latter observed the proceedings from the catwalk next to me. The human was an afterthought, I would prefer him to be elsewhere, but he had been irritatingly insistent on examining the Autobot. What was that human saying about cats and curiosity?

Regardless, the entirety of my focus was centered on the little mech dangling in front of me. He was almost as small as Cliff Jumper, but didn't even put up half the fight. If I didn't know any better, I would have had him pegged as a youngling. No, something was definitely off here.

Dropkick had already assumed his traditional position as the physical part of the interrogation, leaving me to ask the questions and build a foundation of desperate trust with the prisoner. Had Blitzwing still been with us, he would have been the voice of reassurance, reinforcing my offers of mercy and leniency in exchange for information. It was a system that had worked well for us.

Without preamble, Dropkick clenched a servo and slammed it into the Autobot's spinal strut, causing the yellow mech to squeal out in static. In the back of my processor, I registered Powell's gasp of shock at the sudden act of brutality. _Human, that mech is just getting warmed up._

"I hope we have your attention," I stated. B-127 refused to meet my gaze, so I chose to cross the rest of the distance. I stooped down to his diminutive height, "Tell us where Optimus Prime and rebels are hiding."

My digits cupped the underside of his helm, straying close to gaping rent where his vocal processor once rested, I lifted his helm so his azure optics would meet my crimson set, "And we can end this war."

I let his helm rest against his collar struts, a minute shift in my balance signaled my comrade to take his turn. Dropkick was quick on the uptake, grabbing the smaller mech by the collar and pulling him close to his sneering face, "Talk!"

"Who is Optimus Prime?" Powell cut in, rudely interrupting our carefully choreographed interrogation.

**.:The human is interrupting us. Can I kill him now?:. -Dropkick**

** .:Optics on the prize comrade; if necessity allows it, you may dispose of him:. -Shatter**

** .:Gladly:. -Dropkick**

"This does not concern you human-Powell," my agitation was bleeding through my vocal processor, no more of this 'friend' nonsense. I turned back to B-127, "Last chance."

Dropkick's knuckles punctuated my remark into the Autobot's abdominal structure, causing the plates to bow inward before snapping back, the Autobot gave no outward reaction to the stress the blow undoubtedly put on his tactile receptors.

I brushed my digital link against the surface of his firewalls.

**.:This does not need to end with your offlining, I can help you:. - Shatter**

** .:Why should I listen to anything you say?:. -Bumblebee**

I was momentarily surprised he had deigned to respond, and not in the way befitting a trained soldier ready to die for the cause much like that late lieutenant we bisected on Enceladus. But rather, someone willing to be reached.

**.:Because I am your last chance. My comrade heeds my authority, but he will not be reigned in on a whim. I need you to give me something first:. -Shatter **

I allowed my servo to caress the side of his helm, as I leaned mine closer to meet his optics once more. "After all," I whispered, tracing my fingers along a raised antenna, "It is only fair."

I heard Dropkick make a disgusted snort through his vents at my antics; let him watch. Touch could be a powerful tool, if used to the right degree.

**.:I don't even know why I am here:. -Bumblebee**

My browplates shifted upward slightly at the admission.

**.:You are here because you are a criminal B-127:. -Shatter **

** .:My name is Bumblebee, and I have done nothing wrong:. -Bumblebee**

** .:An odd designation, how did you come by it?:. -Shatter**

** .:Friend: Charlie. Assigned it to me:. -Bumblebee**

This had to be the most genial interrogation I've had in a hundred vorns; the mech was so awkward and vulnerable – it was like talking to a sparkling. At the mention of Charlie I reviewed my memory segments of B-127… Bumblebee's capture, and recalled the human femling that tried and failed to assist the incapacitated mech. Made sense, Autobots were often hopelessly enamored in the lives and troubles of beings lesser than them. Had they focused their flagging resources solely on their own interests, perhaps they would still have a foothold on Cybertron.

**.:You care for her, don't you?:. -Shatter**

** .:Yes:. -Bumblebee**

"Aren't you supposed to ask it questions?" Powell asked, appearing remarkably stupid for a creature claiming to posses a higher education.

**.:Can I pop it _now?_:. -Dropkick**

Taking a note out of humanity's book, I gave the irritating doctor the hand. _Talk to that, meatbag._

After capturing a quick pict of the fleshling's flustered expression, I returned my attention to Bumblebee.

**.:Human-Charlie is currently safe at home with her family unit. She suffered no serious physical consequences from your capture, and the human government holds no malice towards her for harboring you:. -Shatter**

A small weight seemed to fall from the mech's shoulders.

**.:I don't remember anything:. -Bumblebee**

The words instantly caused my facial plates to tighten into a small frown. I quickly booted up the scanner, and focused in on the Autobot's memory cells. Immediately the scan identified several trauma points in his array. Battle damage.

Memory loss was not an uncommon malady in this war, I myself had the displeasure of being similarly incapacitated after a particularly brutal encounter with Ultra Magnus and Ironhide. Then there was that time Dropkick was mentally reverted to his youngling days; still have plenty of blackmail material from that one.

I'm getting off track.

Did he receive the damage during the last stand on Cybertron? No, the progress of the regeneration hints at it being caused at a later date. Additionally, the projected date of the injury exactly coincided with…

...The time of Blitzwing's offlining.

A cold fury settled over my spark, I had completely lost all patience with this mech. Dropkick stepped back warily as my wings hitched forward until they were almost paralell with the catwalk next to me, a visible sign of my growing anger. And all this time, I had thought it was Cliff Jumper who had taken my brother in arms away. Blitzwing, was a friend. I was tempted then to throw Cliff Jumper's death in the Autobot's face, force him to watch the vid capture of Dropkick executing him over and over. But then, Bumblebee doesn't exactly remember his old friends anymore, it would be an empty gesture.

I took a moment of focus on my closed off bond with Blitzwing, right next to the still active bond with Dropkick, and took a moment to flush the feelings of rage grief from my processor. Instead, I simply leaned forward with a gentle movement, and lightly pressed my lips against Bumblebee's Autobot insignia, causing a small spark of static to jump between us.

"Then there is nothing I can do for you." I hissed and withdrew.

"He is the one who offlined Blitzwing," I said, turning to a stunned Dropkick, whose facial plates immediately creased with rage.

"Truly?" He snarled, his optics burning like dying stars as he glared into the startled Autobot's own.

"Have at him," I invited. Dropkick needed no further encouragement.

I felt no joy at the look of panic and slight betrayal that shined in Bumblebee's optics as Dropkick layed into him with the savage fury of a mech who had a score to settle; of the two of us, he had the strongest bond to Blitzwing. I had detached myself from the entire situation, my spark cooling down as memories of a lost friend asserted themselves in my processor one after another.

I was finally brought forth from my recollections when a powerful sweeping strike from Dropkick sent Bumblebee flying up on his restraints at a right angle, causing them to dislodge from the hook. The Autobot crashed to the floor face down.

"Can I?" Dropkick asked, hovering expectantly over the yellow mech, who was slowly trying to right himself.

"His memory cells are fried," I stated, looking down at the young mech, "Finish him."

Her partner was quick to oblige, he hammered a kick into the Autobot's side, rolling the scout onto his back, before immediately following up with a devastating stomp on the mech's torso. The moment he did this, a latch on Bumblebee's chest flicked open and my optics identified the telltale signs of a holographic generator activating.

An image of Optimus Prime as large as Dropkick materialized above us. The Prime's strong, noble tenor floated loud and clear into her audio receptors.

_"We will fight on. Rebuild, regroup, and retake our home!"_ The Prime proclaimed, gazing imperiously down at the two Decepticons gaping at his image, _"But we must find refuge first. You will travel to Earth, once we have gathered the others, we will join you. You must protect the planet! If the Decepticons find it..."_

**.:Yeah, about that:. -Dropkick**

**.:Mute it!:. -Shatter**

_"...then our people are truly finished. Stay safe soldier, _I am coming_."_ The message ended, the hologram shut down. A pregnant silence filled our temporary lodging.

"Prime… is coming here?" Dropkick asked, his verbal interface dripping with incredulity.

"They're all coming here..." I said with awe. I was certain that Dropkick could feel the joy overtaking my spark bleeding through the trine bond, indeed I could feel his own growing excitement quite clearly. This was nothing short of providence! Clearly Primus himself has guided us here, to finally eradicate the Autobot pestilence that has for too long sullied Cybertron's hopes and dreams. My entire life cycle has led up to this moment; I had seen the war begin in my youth, and I would be there to pay witness to it's final conclusion.

"This is our chance to wipe out the Autobot Resistance for good!" I exclaimed, I could already taste victory on the tip of my glossa.

"We'll burn the whole planet to cinders!" Dropkick agreed, matching my smirk. Burning the planet might be a bit overkill, though I am sure Blitzwing would approve of the funeral pyre. Although in the interest of pragmatism, a carefully executed surprise attack working in cooperation with those paranoid humans should… oh slag, Powell heard that didn't he?

**.:Now you've done it. The meatbag is panicking:. -Shatter **

** .:And there's my _necessity_:. -Dropkick**

Though I was tiring of the 'Peacekeeper' ruse, it still had potential for the long run. But I wasn't going to press the issue, Dropkick was due his amusements now and then, however juvenile and inconvenient they were at times.

"We must get word to Cybertron immediately," I pressed forward, "Tell them to bring an army."

My audio receptor caught Powell speaking, "Burns we've made a terrible mistake." _By the Pit you did fleshling. Perhaps in the next life, you will be more circumspect when talking of scrapping your betters!_

"And thanks to our human 'allies'..." I continued, casting a mocking optic over in Powell's direction as I brought up a holo of the Russian space station, Mir, "I know just how to get the message home."

"They're using our satellites," Powell whimpered into his primitive communications device. I contemplated jamming it, but figured the damage was already done. "They're calling an army, they're going to kill us all!"

Deactivating the holo, I turned to fully regard the doctor, his skin paling to a rather unhealthy shade of white, "Thank you for your hospitality 'friend' Powell," I said, injecting fake gratitude into my tone before giving Dropkick a knowing smile.

"He's all yours."

Dropkick's Molecular Disruptor folded out of the subspace ports in his left servo as he brought it to bear on the hapless doctor. Powell's last blubbering words were drowned out by the sonorous whine of energon building up in my comrade's weapon system before discharging in an anticlimactic squeal of excited air. I watched in mute fascination as Powell's carbon footprint skyrocketed, before his liquefied remains stained the wall behind him.

**.:That never gets old:. -Dropkick**

I would have responded but a sharp gasp from just beyond the door leading to the catwalk had caught my attention. More interlopers?

A quick bioscan confirmed the presence of two human adolescents cowering behind the door, and one particular bio-signature stood out to me. _'That little femme is persistent, too bad it won't be enough.'_ Dismissing them as a potential threat, I turned back to Dropkick.

"I have found a tower to transmit our message," I brought the structure up on holo. A simple steel lattice construct mounted with dishes, with the proper modifications it would suit our purposes nicely. "It's close."

My attention was drawn to Bumblebee, who was vainly trying to get to his pedes, he looked remarkably like a kicked petrol puppy at the moment. I would know, Dropkick had punted plenty of them back on Cybertron.

"Oh, Bumblebee," I said, savoring his new designation with mock pity, "I almost forgot."

"I didn't," Dropkick growled, unlimbering his weapon system before firing point blank into the young bot's chest. The mech crumpled lifelessly to the ground, his vital signs negative.

In spite of everything, I could feel no pleasure looking down at Bumblebee's corpse. To be offlined, a shell of one's former self. It was almost a mercy killing.

"We are done here," I announced, setting my processor back to the task at hand. There was still a war to be won.

Instinctively I activated my ground transformation cogs, the ones that I had been originally created with, and settled into the form of a modified Plymouth GTX, Dropkick was right behind me as he folded down into his own alternate form.

Pulling out of the warehouse, I activated my second cog set – the ones grafted into my protoform by Shockwave himself – and took to the skies as a Harrier jump jet. The feel of the air friction against my frame and the panoramic view afforded by my sensor suite was enough to chase the unwanted feeling of unease from my processor.

Focusing in on the traffic below, I found myself scanning various vehicle designs as I passed on overhead. In spite of my initial distaste in using them, I found the Earthforms had grown on me; I especially liked the classical American muscle cars, that a Sector Seven auto enthusiast identified my ground form to be of such an example and showed me several others from photos in his wallet.

**.:Collecting souvenirs?:. -Dropkick**

** .:I find myself growing fond of these parts. I think I will keep them for another vorn or ten:. -Shatter**

** .:Ditching mine when we get off the planet. I want to get stuck in with some real femmes when I get off this rock, can't be taken seriously looking like this:. -Dropkick**

** .:Real femmes? Expound:. -Shatter**

I found myself locking my weapon systems on Dropkick's helicopter form.

**.:I meant the ones that I have a 'real' chance with:. -Dropkick**

** .:Better:. -Shatter**

Powering down the missiles, I chuckled internally at Dropkick putting his pedes into his mouth. That mech had never been successful with femmes.

Returning to my road shopping, I spotted a promising vehicle parked outside a bar. It looked pleasing - especially with the stylized avian creature displayed on it's hood - but the all black coat wasn't my thing. I quickly conducted a deep scan of the vehicle as I passed over it, saved it to my database and made a few quick edits to change it's color to my preferences and add a little something to declare my allegiance, the terms Pontiac and Trans-Am flashed through my processor before I confirmed the alterations. I would try that one out when we returned to Cybertron.

* * *

**Dropkick**

Dropkick swooped down into the dock after his companion, his sensors fixed upon the communications tower looming over a dry berth walled off from the sea. It was such a simple looking thing, Dropkick lacked the fascination and skill with primitve technology that Shatter possessed.

"Flimsy piece of trash, one good hit will knock it over," he growled.

"That's why you're here," Shatter replied. He watched as his femme companion unfolded her torso, withdrawing a single large cube from beneath her spark chamber before closing herself up again.

"That will never stop being weird." Dropkick pointed out, earning a light punch in the servo from his comrade.

"It's my largest subspace, and I don't have a sparkling to put in there," Shatter chided, though her words lacked venom. The femme was in too high spirits to let Dropkick spoil the moment. "I will mount this to the upper structure, keep an optic out for trouble. Install the energon generator on the control terminal at the tower's mid level when I call for you."

Dropkick grunted in acknowledgment, keeping an optic on Shatter as she nimbly scaled the tower while opening his receivers to the local airwaves. Apparently there was drama on the streets near their location, a car chase to be specific.

When Shatter reached the apex of the tower, she fused the cube to a nearby strut and the device quickly began unfolding and overtaking the surrounding structure. A square platform grew out of the struts beneath the femme, allowing her to stand comfortably as an array of haptic interfaces lit up in front of her.

Breems passed and the tower's seamless Cybertronic transmutation proceeded apace, thick cables snaked down the structure's central strut.

**.:It's time. Rig the generator, and join me:. -Shatter**

**.:By your command:. -Dropkick **

Dropkick dropped his awareness from the Police scanner, the dispatcher yammered something about a yellow beetle before being cut off. Dropkick pulled the energon generator from his own subspace and began to scale the converted tower.

Reaching the platform at the middle of the structure, he eyed the primitive control interface which had now been overtaken by superior Cybertronian nanotechnology. With care he placed the generator on the box, watching the infested hardware react to it's presence. Latches clamped shut to hold it in place, and cables snaked into ports alongside the generator; almost immediately afterward the green glow of energon began to overtake the transformed structure in a rapidly alternating current.

Satisfied, Dropkick climbed higher up the tower to join Shatter beneath the parabolic antenna that was sprouting from the top of a thick mass of shifting metal and cables.

"So it ends," Dropkick muttered, taking his place at the femme's side.

"Not yet," Shatter countered, "We still have one last battle to fight. It will not end while Prime still lives."

"And after?" he asked curiously.

Shatter's digits paused in their motions, an unfamiliar look crossed her intricate geometric features before a small smile rose to dominate them. "What comes after, will be mine to decide."

Dropkick could feel a growing sense of contentment rise through his trine bond with Shatter, it was mixed in with tiredness and a brief stab of bitter longing, but moreover he could feel an all encompassing sense of relief settling in her spark. He could not recall a time he had ever seen the femme this happy in all the hundreds of vorns he had known her.

That's when he realized that Shatter was on the cusp of completing her life's mission; to bring an end to the Long War.

"Perhaps I will become a _real _peacekeeper," she chuckled, continuing her work with increased gusto. "What about you?"

The offhand inquiry suddenly halted the traffic in his processor. What was he going to do? Dropkick was a warrior, fighting was the only life he knew, and unlike Shatter he did not have much in the way of aspirations beyond crushing his enemies.

"I will stay military," he grunted, "Lord Megatron can't possibly run out of enemies could he?"

"It is doubtful," Shatter agreed, "Even when Prime falls, many of his supporters will carry on the fight, futile as it would be."

"Then I'll kill them," Dropkick answered confidently, his mood brightening at his future prospects for violence.

"It's ready," Shatter announced, her optics fixated on the haptic interfaces floating in front of her helm. Pausing, she turned her helm to regard him; Dropkick was surprised when his tactile sensors registered Shatter's hand resting upon his shoulder, his spark warmed at the ages old gesture of camaraderie and he reciprocated, placing his own servo on a glossy red shoulder plate.

"For Blitzwing."

She nodded to him, and she let her hand fall away. "Preparing satellites to transmit our message."

Dropkick remained silent while Shatter worked her magic, the interface was now flooded with status bars denoting individual viral packages being uploaded to satellites and the rootkit being planted into the systems of the Mir station.

Just when boredom began settling into his processor, shit started blowing up.

Three explosive shells smashed into the parabolic array, nearly shaking him off the platform. Instinctively he traced the trajectory and his optics settled on none other than B-127, who was charging the tower weapon raised to fire.

_'Sweet Primus, this is embarrassing.' _

"Handle him!" Shatter bellowed, hauling herself up to the damaged antenna, "And finish the job this time!"

_'__And there goes her good mood.'_

Leaping from the platform, he activated his secondary cogs, transforming into a Cobra attack helicopter to dive in on the leaping Autobot, reverting to his true form to catch the smaller mech in flying tackle, sending both of them crashing to the ground through the hulls of a number of light seacraft.

The yellow mech rolled to his pedes to face him, and Dropkick felt a burst of energon flow from his spark into his servos as the thrill of the fight descended upon him. This was going to be fun.

* * *

**Shatter**

The damage was not irreversible. All it took was a few quick welds and an energon transfer to jumpstart the self-repair process. Anger coursed through my circuits, forcing minute jolts from my coolant system as I felt Dropkick fight it out with Bumblebee in the dockyard below me. I am so close! We cannot afford to fail now, not after all these eons of grueling service.

It appeared that the mech had finally restored his memory circuits, if his performance against my trine mate was anything to indicate. It would make no difference, Dropkick would crush the Autobot in time.

Dropping back to the platform, I quickly re-engaged the transmitter and locked optics onto the status bar that flashed onto the primary holo-screen. Twenty-seven percent uploaded.

A rocket screamed past my shoulder and I recoiled backwards in surprise, it was then that my sensors locked upon an approaching helicopter. Focusing my optics I made out a familiar face in the cockpit. Agent Burns.

The helicopter's machine guns opened up on my position, forcing me into cover. The bullets weren't too threatening, but they could give me damage I could honestly live without. I returned fire with a burst from my repeater cannon and swung down beneath the platform, hoping to draw the weapons fire away from the transmitter.

A sudden chorus of alarms washed through my bond with Dropkick. I could feel his pain and distress, something had just gone terribly wrong.

**.:****Dropkick!:. -Shatter **

No, not again! I can't lose another! My companion for the last two-thousand vorns chimed my comms one last time, a mixture of rage, regret, and pain washed through our bond.

** .:Farewell… comrade:. -Dropkick**

The explosion from down below, and the abrupt collapse of my last trine bond nearly made me fall off the tower. My lonely spark howled with pain, and my processors struggled to cope. Dropkick was gone! Gone forever!

The whir of rotor blades and the staccato of machine gun fire roused me from my spell of grief. There was still a mission to complete.

Snarling, I activated my VTOL thrusters and jumped to the top of the transmitter, gripping the rim of the antenna and leveling my servo at the helicopter as a short range missile slipped out of my forearm's munition rack. A mental impulse sent the missile into the machine's engine, sending it spiraling to the ground.

I wasn't left long to revel in it's destruction before tampering alarms blared in my HUD, I snapped my focus down below and took notice of the wretched femling. Bumblebee's human friend.

"What. Are. You. DOING?!" I shouted, spraying a long burst of my repeater at the fleshling who scrambled desperately for cover.

A savage thought imposed itself in my processor.

Bumblebee stole Dropkick from me. I will return the favor with this disgusting animal! I leaped off the platform, activating my flier mode in mid flip. Swinging myself into position I lined my sights upon the femling. _'__Burn in the Pit, you pathetic sow!'_

A rotary cannon dropped from my fuselage and spun up to unleash a quick burst, but before I could take the shot my airframe rippled with shock as an explosive projectile hammered into me from below. My engines cut out and I immediately nosed down into an out of control spin. I reverted to my true form just before I crashed down into the empty berth below.

**Warning! Cog-set A-2 critically damaged. Flight mode: offline**

Primus slag it! I rolled my frame upright and took stock of my surroundings. I could see evidence of Dropkick's demise all around me, only his legs and lower chassis were left intact from his violent end. Tearing my gaze off the still smoking remains, I ducked into a nearby drainage alcove and sure enough Bumblebee was running down to face me.

The upload bar in my HUD read seventy-seven percent. Almost there.

The moment the Autobot's pedes met the floor of the drydock, I was leaping towards him. I locked my servos around his frame, my momentum rolling us helm over aft before I arrested it by slamming my pede into his torso, pinning the mech down.

In a physical match, there was no contest between us. But the scout proved to be a tricky little fragger, before I could unload a point blank burst from my repeater into his helm, he did a quick partial transformation, driving himself out from under me. I went after him with my own Plymouth form, ramming him down again before he could get back to his pedes.

Rolling out of a quick retransition I was upon him, seizing the mech by the scruff of his frame; my half-subspaced engine revved up wrathfully as I threw him over my shoulder and smashed him into the concrete.

Upload at eighty-five percent.

The young scout shook off his disorientation, a serrated cybertronium knuckle blade slid out of his left servo and he came charging at me. Rookie mistake.

I easily evaded the first swing by stepping backwards, I stepped back into his guard while he prepared a follow up and caught the servo and the blade firmly in my grip. I jerked the smaller mech off balance, before snapping the blade off with a perfectly timed knee strike. Now his weapon was my weapon.

Before Bumblebee could even react, I was already driving the mech's own blade through his torso plate and slamming his helm into the ground. Humiliation.

**Caution: Power failure imminent!**

I gasped through my intakes, my optics locking on the tower with growing horror. I could only watch helplessly as the glow of energon petered out, leaving the tower dark and my transmitter dead.

"No..." the bottom dropped out from under my processor. Blitzwing's death, Dropkick's sacrifice; it had all been in vain.

The femling responsible leaned out over the railing above, the elated look on her face sent my spark ablaze with renewed fury. '_I should have killed this one when I first saw it!'_

My facial plates scraped together into an expression which I am sure was of pure hatred as I lined my sights on the human.

Once more however, Bumblebee interfered. My weapon was knocked out of line and I found myself being flipped over onto my back. The young mech was punching me repeatedly in the helm. Acting on experience I broke out of his lock with a quick strike and sent him flying off.

I forced myself to my pedes and advanced upon the yellow irritant. The mech tried to stand, I denied him with an expertly delivered roundhouse kick to the helm.

It wasn't enough to kill him now. He had to suffer.

Hauling him up by his winglets, I drove my knee into the base of his neck and threw him back to the ground.

Rage coursed through me, I roared out my frustrations, vented out the agony in my spark for the mechs that I had lost as I began pummeling Bumblebee's masked helm into the concrete. I pinned him under my greater weight and stared spitefully into his insectoid styled lenses and the dimming optics beneath them. The sweltering heat blasting from my vents distorted the air around us as I reached for a broken length of metal with a jagged point at the end.

"After I kill you..." my voice rose to a scream as I prepared to drive the improvised spear into the mech's battered helm, **"I'll kill her!"**

Before I could finish him, I heard Bumblebee's cannon give out one last defiant report. Incredulous I glanced back to see the damage wrought on the berth wall behind me. In spite of the situation a contemptuous chuckle rose out of my vocal processor, "You missed."

I was just about to offline him when a great shudder echoed across the drydock. I turned back just in time to witness the sea gate collapsing inwards, and the flat bow of a large cargo ship slide into the berth atop a cresting wall of water. It was coming right for me!

I moved to get out of the way, but was stopped by a blow from behind that knocked me to my knees and two servos gripping me from behind, holding me in place. The cargo ship was accelerating faster, at the speed it was going it could not possibly fail to crush us flat. As if summoned by this realization, a collision alarm blinked in my peripheral vision.

"You'll kill us both!" I shouted, struggling to free myself. But the mech remained unyielding in his apparent desire to sacrifice himself. If it were anyone other than me in this situation, I would have been impressed. Water rushed around our frames and the out of control vessel bore down upon me, it's bow mounted flood lights overwhelming my optics. My spark stilled in my chest.

The ship slammed into me like the fist of an angry god.

The impact could be felt all the way through to my protoframe, my torso plates crumpled inwards from the sheer brute force of the container ship as it carried me unwillingly upon a wave of water. I felt Bumblebee tumble off my back – hopefully to be ground into useless scrap – but I managed to grab hold of the bow before the current could suck me under where I would be crushed between the hull and the floor; I looked behind me to see the wall at the end of the drydock rushing towards me.

I would not survive that.

My logic center spun into overdrive and time slowed down for me. How do I get out of this?

Ten seconds until impact. I needed to remove the wall.

My battle mask snapped down snugly over my face as I leveled my servo and fired a high yield missile at the oncoming wall. It buried it's head into the concrete and sputtered out. No effect, missile was a dud. Having no time to curse the faltering standards of today's munitions industry, I struggled to come up with another plan.

Seven seconds until impact. Plan B, into the ship.

I offline the safeties in all my servomotors and energon lines, this was a matter of life or death. My entire frame pulsed green as my systems went into overload; my fist punched clean through the bow, my other servo joined it to widen the breach.

Four seconds until impact. I force my frame through, I scream incoherently as I feel an energon line in my shoulder stress to breaking point. My spark feels like it's going to burst from my chassis, the pain is nearly overwhelming. I will not die here. I will not allow it to end like this!

Two seconds until impact. My body is halfway through, I fold my wings into subspace in an effort to get in all the way.

When the ship climatically slammed into the berth wall, my missile chose that moment to detonate. My vision goes white, alarms shriek in my processor, my audios are consumed with static, I feel my leg buckle, flames burst around me.

Then all was silent.

* * *

**Author's Note: And there we have it. My first chapter uploaded in years. It's taken time for me to muster up enough mojo to get back into fanfics and this idea was too sweet to pass up. Shatter was by far one of my favorite characters, probably more so than BB because she actually had more lines. This is probably going to be a long fic, I have a loose structure already set in place and have a good idea on how it's going to play out. Don't expect regular updates on this, but I'll try to stick with this until the end.**

**Edit 6/18/2019: Was just informed that the ISS wasn't even launched in the eighties, I have replaced it with the Soviet owned Mir space station.**


	2. When Luck Runs Out

Gloved hands gripped the rubber wrapped steering wheel whilst intense eyes stared out at the well-lit track in front of the car and the idling shapes of the competition. Adrenaline fueled anticipation built up inside his system as the low growl of the engines vibrated the air around him. Outside his field of view, a muffled voice echoed above the din of an excited crowd packed into the stands spanning the length of the first and final stretch on either end of the starting line.

Rookie sensation Donald Davis rested easy in the seat of an '87 Buick Grand National, it's body painted green and blue and bedecked in a constellation of high profile sponsors. This was the 1987 Winston Cup, held at the Alabama International Motor Speedway; there were many celebrated drivers on the grid with him tonight, but he was by far the crowd favorite.

The NASCAR official raised the flag, in his mind Donny began the countdown. The flag waved down and his world became a din of screeching tires and roaring engines.

Around and around they went, Donny's Buick spat flames from the exhaust as it overtook one opponent after another, none of them coming even close to matching his car or the driver handling it. He could hear the crowd outside the vehicle cheer his name, his number, his title. On this track, he was a god.

Donny was midway into the eighteenth lap when his crew chief's voice crackled through his helmet, worry tinging his voice.

_"__Donny, we have a situation. The pace car is on the track, it's heading right for you." _

Sure enough, on the other side of the loop, Donny could spot the sleek silver '87 corvette with it's flashing yellow light bar speeding down the track in the wrong direction.

When the pace car took out the lead racer, Donny's heart stopped in his chest. A massive fireball bloomed out over the track ahead of him, and the pace car – tires trailing the flames of it's victim – barreled through like a freight train, promptly taking down the unfortunate vehicle right next to him. A charred helmet bounced off his windshield.

_"__Holy shit!" _Donny cried out, swerving to avoid the lead car's burning hulk.

_"__Sorry, Donny NASCAR's ratings have been falling a bit lately so they changed the rules… they told us not to tell you, sorry." _The chief explained sadly.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me! I'm going into the pit!"

_"__Pit's closed Donny, the suits don't want anyone getting out. You have to win the race!"_

The pace car was making another run on the racers. Donny sacrificed his position, slowing down to let other racers pull on ahead of him to provide a barrier between him and the ironically hazardous safety vehicle. Three racers were obliterated in the blink of an eye, the corvette plowing through them like a cannon ball through horse cavalry.

He fought to keep his vehicle steady as he weaved through the wreckage and the fires, other cars were not so lucky. Number 56 was aflame and it's panicked driver was swerving out of control, Donny passed the immolated race car, his mind too transfixed on his own fortunes to spare a thought for the man who was likely burning alive.

"Damn it! Tell them to stop the race! People are dying out here!"

_"__I know, can't you hear the crowd going nuts?"_

No, no, no! This is not the way he wanted this to happen! It wasn't supposed to be this way!

The pace car was just up ahead, and he knew that it was gunning for him now. He veered left to throw off the maniac's aim, then right as the corvette matched his movements. Donny gritted his teeth in panic as the pace car's headlamps blinded him, it was going to get him! It-

* * *

**Donald**

Donald "Donny" Davis rose out of bed like a dead man crawling from his grave. The morning light stung his eyes through the gaps in the blinders covering the bedroom window, illuminating the racing posters spread across the wall. To his side, a head of long dark hair was turned away from him, groaning tiredly as he shifted under the covers. Never a morning person, Donny blinked away the pain creeping from behind his eyeballs as he searched for something to wear. His eyes fell on his bedroom mirror. A well muscled, square-jawed Caucasian of twenty-three with a bedraggled bush of sandy blonde hair stared tiredly back at him. He wasn't given much time to dwell on his unkempt appearance before his partner swung a pair of long tanned legs over the side of the bed and stood to join him in his task.

"Those aren't yours, they're mine," she groused, snatching a pair of red panties out of his hand.

"Just trying to be courteous," he chuckled tiredly while slipping into a pair of worn jeans.

Autumn Matthews, a friend with benefits he had kept in touch with out of high school; not just for her looks but for her impressive talent for all things mechanical, cars specifically. He had originally asked her over to take a look under his Mazda's hood, then they moved on to dinner, and then a little something extra to wrap up a great evening.

Pulling on a gray t-shirt with the Pontiac logo printed on the front, Donny left Autumn to it while he left his bedroom and stepped into the living room. Donny's home wasn't overly large, but it was comfortable and sat on a respectably sized property in Mill Valley a little ways northwest of Sausalito.

He set about preparing breakfast, coffee and eggs; the easiest and quickest things in the world to make. He heard the shower turn on in the bathroom and knew he wouldn't be using it for a while, so he took his time. He finished the eggs before the coffee, so while scarfing down his plate he decided to pop on the television.

The television flickered on and with it the morning news. A moderately hot reporter was looking quite excited; some distance behind her, police cars and several Army Humvees accompanied by heavily armed soldiers provided a formidable front against curious intruders. The doors of the Hummers were all marked with a pair of plain black characters; S-7. Like that wasn't shady as hell.

_"… I am standing outside Pier __Ten__ where last night what could only be described as an armed skirmish broke out. Witnesses describe seeing explosions, hearing gunfire, and at least one account of a military __helicopter__ being spotted hovering over the harbor __during the disturbance__. The site has been closed down by both the Police and an as yet unidentified military unit..."_

Sounds like something exciting went down last night.

The coffee finished brewing and he poured himself a mug, taking it black. He continued to watch the newscast, it went on to discuss the possibility of a terrorist attack or gang warfare, one weirdo even said something about giant robots. He wasn't taken seriously. Since the Army was involved, Donny briefly wondered if his father had any inkling of what was going on.

Donny downed the rest of his coffee, after a few minutes he felt some of his humanity return to him as the caffeine worked it's wonders. He heard the front door close, and knew that Autumn was now out of the house, leaving him all alone again. Looking at the clock, Patrick and Jonathan wouldn't be showing up for another hour; he should probably be getting his cars ready.

There were two cars in his garage. In the right space was his trusty black 1977 GMC Sierra 2500 pickup, a sturdy beast that he used for his day job at the shop. And in the left spot was his pride and joy, a 1985 Mazda RX-7 colored white with red racing stripes, this he used for his greatest pleasure in life; amateur racing.

At the end of every month, he would take the Mazda down to the track and race like minded people for fun and sometimes profit. Last month however, something truly miraculous had happened after he had thoroughly trounced the competition.

After coming off the high of his victory, he had been approached by a man in a shiny suit. His name was Jason Donahue, he was a dealership owner that operated properties both here in Sauselto, one in San Francisco and another all the way down in Pasadena. His business sponsored a wide variety of events at Laguna Seca down south, and he was so impressed by Donny's driving he had invited him to bring his car to partake in the latest event happening today.

Donny, both overwhelmed and honored had immediately accepted. This was a golden opportunity to build his credibility as a driver, another step towards his ultimate ambition; to race professionally.

The Mazda wasn't exactly fit for driving all the way to the track, that was where his Sierra came in, he had a flatbed trailer sitting next to his garage. Opening both doors, he started off by taking the pickup out first. The engine came to life with a deep growl, and the truck rolled out into the warm Summer sun like a bear from it's cave.

Sliding a mixtape into his Walkman, he then busied himself hitching the trailer to the Sierra.

* * *

_ 'When I die and they lay me to rest'_

_ 'Gonna go to the place that's the best'_

_ 'When I lay me down to die'_

_ 'Goin' up to the spirit in the sky'_

* * *

After the trailer was secured to the Sierra's hitch, Donny lowered the trailer's reinforced ramp and got into the Mazda. His RX-7 had been carefully modified for the task he had bought it for; it came complete with a three point safety belt, a roll cage, and a custom dash. Turning the key, the import car's eight cylinder engine hummed smoothly to life.

Donny grinned as he steadily guided the sleek two-door up the steel track ramp onto the flat bed before shifting into park and turning off the engine. Ten minutes later, his buddies finally arrived.

Two cars pulled into his driveway, both a stark contrast to one another. The first one was a beautiful yellow Lamborghini Urraco, the other was a slightly dated Honda Civic with fading brown paint.

Patrick Whittle was a world class hoarder and an artist when it came to modifying vehicles. The man was overweight, close to obese, with a prominent pot belly. He was fairly boring past those points. He loved to talk about food, watch cooking shows, but he couldn't cook anything himself and subsisted mainly off McDonalds and Chinese takeout.

Very emotional though, kinda like he belonged in a reality show.

Patrick liked collecting things. Spare car parts, autographs, movies, music cassettes, and other things he got at a bargain. Whenever the swap meet organized in town, he'd go from stall to stall and grab… whatever the hell they were selling, no matter how useless or tacky. And every year, his place would be filled closer to being uninhabitable as his piles of junk just lay there collecting dust.

Jonathan Reeves was a fellow member of Donny's auto club and no slouch behind the wheel himself. Jonathan was rather on the short side at five foot eight, and wasn't near as muscular as Donny.

Both of Jonathan's parents were into banking, and their investments had enabled their son to grow up in a fairly affluent environment. In fact, that Lambo wasn't even used in his races, the man also owned a powerful Nissan 300zx.

He had not thought much of the guy when they first met two years ago, the man had come off as just another rich kid with no idea what he was doing, that was until Jonathan managed to snatch a win away from Donny right before the finish line two years ago. It started as mutual respect, but eventually grew into a tight friendship that both young men reveled in.

Greeting his friends warmly, Donny invited them into his home.

"Feeling nervous?" Jonathan asked, pouring himself some coffee.

"Who wouldn't be?" Donny admitted, sparing his friends his usual front of bravado for once, "I mean, this is my first real chance to stand out and be noticed. Some very important people keep an eye on races at Laguna Seca, I need to put on a good showing for them."

"I've seen you drive," Jonathan said, sipping his mug, "You'll be fine."

Of course, it was not mentioned that if things went sour, he would probably not get a chance to return to Laguna Seca for a good long while.

"I noticed you are taking the Lambo out for once," Donny mentioned, breaking up the silence.

Jonathan's Lamborghini was a cruel bitch to maintain. Early Italian sports cars were apparently made of tinfoil and held together by chewing gum, it aged poorly and required constant restoration work to keep in mint condition. Jonathan had spent so much time working on his Urraco, spilled so much of his sweat and blood into it's upkeep, the car was basically a relative at this point. The Urraco spent most of it's time sitting in it's own little garage.

"Felt like a good enough occasion to stretch the old girl's legs," Jonathan replied, "I didn't spend all that time restoring her from scrap just to let her stand around looking pretty. Besides, my other girl is already on her way ahead of us."

Jonathan did not tow his own car, he was wealthy enough to hire others to do it for him.

They heard the toilet flush and a few moments later, Patrick waddled out to grab his own coffee. "You mind I grab a bite for the road?"

"Help yourself," Donny answered, "Just don't touch my leftovers."

"Thanks, you want me to take a look at your car before we set out?" Patrick asked as he opened the fridge.

"Nah, I already called Autumn over last night to take a look at it."

Both of his friends paused and Jonathan shot him a slightly disapproving look. Donny had a girlfriend, Holly Woodsworth, who he had been going steady with since his second year at UC Berkeley, it was no secret to them that Donny had been seeing other women on the side in the years since. Jonathan already had a fiance that he was marrying next year, and had been pressuring Donny to confess the truth to Holly and release her from their farce of a relationship.

"Really Donny?"

With those two words, Donny was immediately in defense mode, "Let's not get into it, not today."

Jonathan grimaced before setting his coffee on a coaster, this had always been a sour point in their friendship, and he could already tell this would not end happily for Donny.

"Fine, we should probably hit the road now while the traffic is good."

It was roughly a three hour plus drive from Mill Valley to Laguna Seca, so they were setting out early. Donny stepped into the Sierra and started the engine, taking in the comforting growl as he shifted into gear. The sexy smooth whine of the classic Lamborghini sounded out soon after, followed by the generic puttering of the Honda.

Donny led the three out of the driveway and past the scornful looks of his elderly next door neighbors, and through the clean narrow roads of Mill Valley's suburbs, every so often he glanced backward to make sure his Mazda was still sitting on the flatbed.

Turning onto route 101, the small convoy drove onward – passing by Sauselito and it's rich neighborhoods until the city of San Francisco appeared over the treeline, sitting picturesque across the Bay, a few minutes later Donny caught sight of the Golden Gate Bridge; American landmark, California's most popular suicide venue, and all-around beautiful piece of engineering. When they reached the bridge, Donny took note of a vehicle rushing up through the left lane.

It was a dandelion yellow '77 Chevy Camaro with black racing stripes. Always one to appreciate quality American-made muscle, Donny kept an eye on it in his mirror. Whoever was driving it clearly had no respect for the rules of the road, the Camaro was weaving through traffic without turn signals and was driving well over the speed limit, as the Chevy came up alongside him, he looked to his side and saw…

… nobody at the steering wheel.

When the driverless Camaro cheekily honked it's horn, Donny choked on his own spit. The yellow car then overtook his Sierra, revving it's engine flauntingly as it sped away from him. Donny stared out at the road in front of him, his brain stalled out.

When they stopped for gas and to piss out the morning coffee, Donny brought it up.

"Did you guys see that yellow Camaro on the Golden Gate?" Donny asked his two friends, unsure of himself.

"Yeah," Jonathan confirmed.

"Sorry, what Camaro?" Patrick asked.

"The one that was driving all over the place, 1977 model, black racing stripes," Jonathan explained to him.

"Wasn't paying that much attention," Patrick explained.

"Nobody was behind the wheel," Donny said, somewhat shakily, "The car was driving itself."

The two gazed at him, Jonathan was amused, "I think you have been watching too many movies, besides Christine was a Plymouth, not a Chevy."

"I know what I saw," Donny defended, "There was something up with that car."

Neither Jonathan or Patrick believed him, so Donny chose to drop it.

* * *

The encounter with 'Satan's Camaro' stuck with Donny all the way to Laguna Seca. He had seen odd shit before, but cars driving themselves was a completely new brand of crazy for him. What the Hell was driving that thing? An evil spirit? Computers? Did he just hallucinate the entire thing?

When they eventually pulled into the prestigious track, Donny saw to the unloading of his car and registered himself into the upcoming heat. Jonathan's impressive red white and blue '85 Nissan 300zx had already been rolled out, ready to be placed on the grid. To pass time, he stepped out onto the grandstands to watch the heat already in progress.

Donny glanced at the pit on the other side of the track, he spotted the pace car sitting peacefully off to the side. Though it didn't look like the one in his dream, his unsettled mind wondered if it might pull a Christine and assassinate him during the race. After all, cars can apparently drive themselves these days.

"Mister Davis!" A charming voice called out. Donny turned around to see Jason Donahue approaching him. The middle aged man was wearing another of his ridiculously expensive tailored suits with a red power tie, his oiled comb over was putting up a valiant – but losing – fight against the strong Summer winds blasting over the track. Next to him was… is that a talent scout? Donny's bravado returned with full force, and gave Mr. Donahue a thousand dollar smile.

"Mr. Donahue!" He greeted, holding his hand out for a shake which the older man enthusiastically accepted. Donny casually turned the charm up to eleven and spoke with upbeat confidence, "Thank you for inviting me here sir, it's a real honor!"

The businessman gave a wry chuckle, "Think nothing of it son, I got an eye for talent and I believe you will give us an afternoon to remember for years to come! Mister Davis, I would like you to meet Alan Sharpener, he took the '77, and '79 SECA championships in his day!"

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Sharpener," Donny grinned, holding his hand out to the man he _really_ wanted to please.

"The pleasure is all mine, kid," Sharpener smiled knowingly, "Jason would not stop talking about a hotshot he picked up out in the boonies; I understand you already have a few wins under your belt?"

"Four so far, working on the fifth presently," Donny confirmed.

"Ha, ha! That's the spirit," Jason barked, "You are starting to remind me of Alan here back in the-"

"Donny! There you are!" A stone dropped in Donny's gut as he turned to see his parents and younger twin sisters coming for him.

"Ah, I see. We won't take up any more of your time Mister Davis," Mr. Donahue winked, Mr. Sharpener nodded and left with him. _'No! NO! You can have my time! Take all of it!' _But it was too late, Donahue and his very important friend were already walking away.

A frown crossing his face, Donny turned to lay his eyes back on his family. _'Damn it! They are not going to cost me my chance to go pro!' _They were always doing this, always getting in the way. They might have meant well, but he could not afford to be held back from destiny.

"Hey," he greeted neutrally. His father raised an eyebrow at the cold reception, but his mother powered on, not noticing the coldness in her son's eyes.

Trudy Davis, proud mother of three, swept her eldest into a hug that he did not return. He was stiff as a board.

"We came here to watch your race!" She gushed, "Mr. Donahue sent us the tickets, and your father and I decided to make it into a family outing!"

"I see," Donny replied, trying to get his temper under control. At this point, Trudy realized there was something off about her son's demeanor.

"Is everything alright Donny?" she asked, her excitement ebbing slightly.

"Everything is fine," he answered blankly, "Now if you excuse me, I've got a heat to win."

* * *

**Mr. Davis**

General Roger Davis, father of three, watched his only son stalk away with his back still rigid with pent up emotion. His wife returned to him, looking confused and a little disheartened. He put an arm around her in reassurance.

"Why is Donny so boring today?" Kelly asked. Both of his daughters idolized their older sibling, even though they did not get to see him much between him going to college when they were growing up and now living out on his own. They were enamored with his exciting and risky lifestyle, and did not easily perceive the divide that had grown between Donald and the rest of the family.

"Donny is just focused on his race honey," Roger assured her, Susan had a more penseive expression on her face, she had always been faster on reading into things than Kelly had been.

"Will he be all right?" Trudy asked, her worry showing through.

"Donald will be fine, we'll sort things out with him after he finishes his race."

Roger had never wanted his son to engage in motorsports; there were few activities more pointlessly dangerous in his opinion. He had already lost his father and uncle to the second World War, and was not eager to know the pain of losing his firstborn, especially to something so stupid.

But for once, just this once he had brought himself over to see things from Donny's perspective. It did not take long for him to realize that his son's perspective was skewed like all hell, like a man who did not know his priorities in life.

He partially blamed himself, Roger had turned Donnie away from the military, not wanting him to get mixed up in the pointless wars like he had been back in Vietnam. He couldn't help but feel that the Army might have given Donny the structure and discipline that he was lacking in today.

Roger had brought his wife and girls here to show his son that they still stood by him, despite their differences. And also, because this was probably going to be the last time they would be able to support him like this for a while. He had gotten a call last night that promised to completely ruin his week.

The Secretary of Defense had given the call for all domestic commands to move to DEFCON 3, and to standby for a possible escalation to DEFCON 2. The reasons for the escalation were murky at best, but word from the grapevine was that Sector Seven was involved, and the incident at the harbor last night had something to do with it. He would find out everything at the staff meeting tomorrow.

But until then, he would spend the day with his family; and watch his son fight for his dream.

* * *

**Donald**

Donny's heat had been exciting but uneventful. Eight laps around the track with six other cars, in the end he had earned his position in the main event.

Thankfully, he didn't have to see his family again, he was able to camp out in his car until he was given the go ahead to put his car back on the track.

His Mazda was sitting snugly among a grid of other relatively new import cars, all of them modern vehicles of the highest sporting caliber. Donny's car was lined up close to the back, all the better for him to put on a better show.

The race official stepped onto the track after a few minutes and pointed his wrapped flag at the racers. Donny recognized it as the signal for the drivers to enter their cars and start their engines, Donny did not need further encouragement. Donny's eight cylinder engine joined the droning cacophony that washed over the track. The official raised the flag high, prompting Donny and the other drivers to raise their hands out of their cars to indicate their readiness. With a dramatic flare, the green flag whipped down and he stepped out of the way as the combined power of a million horses was unleashed upon the tarmac. The field of cars immediately began to spread out as differences in horsepower began making their tells, Donny was bringing up the rear, his focus bent on bringing his Mazda into the first position.

Flying over the first corner, and sliding down through a tight left hair-pin, Donnie expertly handled his turns, taking advantage of other driver's need to break on turns and passing them on the outside.

Donny was in his element, more importantly he was living his dream. Rushing down the straight, Donny overtook another Mazda RX-7, swerving on the inside of the fourth turn to leave the competitor in the dust. He turned down the power as the race went uphill before dropping down abruptly as he pulled through Laguna Seca's famous Corkscrew. Donny handled the blind decent with ease, though his heart hammered. It was a different experience reading about it and seeing the pictures than actually driving it. His heart hammered as he began the second lap.

Up ahead he could see Jonathan's distinctively colored Nissan. His friend was also doing very well, having moved up two positions since the race began. But the race was still young, and he could afford to cruise a little bit and wait for the competition to make mistakes.

As the race wore on and it came to the last couple laps, Donny made his move. Having sneaked up to fifth position, he had Jonathan square in his sights. Taking a powerslide down the next turn, he slammed down on the gas, shifting the gear down and downshifting again for a burst of power. Jonathan must have noticed him suddenly gaining on him because he was also accelerating. Both Japanese imports braked as they hit the corkscrew, taking the turn as carefully as they could without smashing into the outside wall. Donny grinned, he was right behind him now. When the next hairpin came up, Donny pressured Jonathan into braking too late allowing his Mazda to overtake him on the inside turn.

The race was in it's final lap. And it was here, Donny's luck failed him.

In second position, a red and white '87 BMW M3 was having trouble. The driver could see smoke coming from the hood of his vehicle and was growing increasingly concerned. His distraction caused him to botch a corner, the BMW's wheels rolled into the dirt, kicking up a large cloud of dust behind the race car. Dismayed and a little panicked, the driver stepped on the brakes without thinking. Meanwhile, right behind him, Donnie's Mazda RX-7 was coming in at over a hundred miles per hour. Donnie could not see the other car through the dust cloud, and drove straight into it without slowing down.

Before Donny knew what was happening, he was pushed into the straps of his three-point safety harness and the Mazda was airborne and somersaulting. He had enough time to see the dirt outside of the track facing the front of the car as it nosed over, and knew that this was going to hurt.

* * *

Back in the grandstands, Trudy Davis screamed in horror as she watched her son's vehicle roll violently off the track, throwing pieces of wreckage in all directions. Roger Davis could only watch as his worst nightmare was made real before his widened yes.

* * *

In position five, Jonathan Reeves saw his friend's vehicle spin like a top towards the fence, and on instinct turned his vehicle off the track and after the wrecked Mazda.

* * *

The race car slammed into the earth, throwing Donny into his three point restraints, the door and the seat, his neck screamed in pain, he cried out in fear. He briefly saw the sky again, then saw the fence pass underneath him.

As quickly as it happened, it was over. The Mazda was upside down, there was something sticking through the windshield. Donny could feel a piercing coldness in his gut, and his hand numbly grasped at the affected area only to find a long length of something poking him there.

His hand came away and he found his white gloves stained red. It was at that moment, the coldness began to overtake the rest of his body.

_"Donny? Donny! Are you okay?"_

He tried to answer, but the only thing to escape his lips was a ragged cough, he could taste copper in his mouth. Trails of red were now streaming down the length of the metal spar lanced through his windshield.

"Oh… crap," he said hoarsely, looks like those were going to be his last words. He was feeling very tired now. Darkness tugged the corners of his vision and he found himself unwillingly letting go.

_"Oh my God… Donny!"_

There were people standing outside the car, he thought he could see Jonathan's face, pale as a rice sheet screaming at him, desperation written in his eyes.

_"DONNY!"_

He could not answer him, he could not-

* * *

**Author's Note: Not sure if this is my best work. Action sequences are difficult for me. Reviews are welcome.**


	3. Missing In Action

Pier Ten had been locked down immediately following the events of the night before last. Sector Seven reinforcements had arrived on the scene not long after the final showdown between the two extraterrestrial warriors. Witnesses had been detained and bribed, the inactive alien machinery attached to the tower had been secured and was now being analyzed, and the one confirmed alien survivor of the whole fiasco was nowhere to be seen. Yesterday, all efforts had been focused on isolating the area from the rest of the world and trying fruitlessly to track down NBE-1 – known to some as Bumblebee.

Colonel Jack Burns had no regrets of letting the little – comparatively speaking – robot go. It was clear to him by now that it hadn't been the real enemy, that distinction belonged to the three other machines he had the displeasure of coming into contact with. NBE-2 had rained fire down upon him and his men unprovoked under the guise of a friendly aircraft, NBE-3 had lied to his face and shamelessly used his organization's resources to nearly condemn humanity to an alien invasion, and NBE-4 killed Powell.

This morning, he had been called in to attend a staff meeting with General Whalen and the other heads of staff at Sector Seven. Another general had been brought into the loop, Roger Davis. The man hadn't said a word the entire meeting, he appeared to be anxious to leave the entire time; word from the grapevine said that his son had been in an accident yesterday and was now comatose in a hospital, his prognosis uncertain. Jack would have preferred to let the man leave, but Whalen was adamant that he attend.

Not much was discussed at the meeting aside from after action reports, and bringing up the probability of NBE-3 having survived the incident after the initial sweeps failed to find any sign of it's remains. A brief memorial service was held in Operations afterward in Doctor Powell's honor; it was only a little time later that they discovered the Decepticons had left a little present in their Cray network. The moment they tried to use it to locate NBE-1, a worm cluster was activated inside the mainframe that wiped out every computer system in Sector Seven that was connected to it. Needless to say the world wide network was down; but as fortune would have it, Powell was the kind of man who preferred to put all his notes on paper, they had plenty of information to start over from scratch. Albeit more slowly now that they no longer had the Decepticons helping them.

They were still at DEFCON 3, for the simple reason that they did not know what to expect. Powell said they were using their satellites to call in their army to invade Earth, and nobody was certain whether or not they had been successful. Charlie Watson claimed that she had been able to disable the transmitter before it could send their message home, the Secretary of Defense was unwilling to take her word for it.

Needless to say, Jack wasn't getting a vacation anytime soon.

With nothing else at base to do, duty had taken Jack back to where it had all ended. Only to find a gaggle of reporters rushing his staff car to shove microphones in his face.

Just like at McKinnon Airfield, the media had sent it's hounds to scope out the site. Channel's seven and nine were the biggest nuisances of all of them. The only saving grace was that only a few people actually saw the aliens fighting it out, and all of them had been paid off save for a pothead whose interview left much to be desired for those seeking answers. The perimeter was on lockdown, but Whalen was taking zero chances of the truth being discovered, he wanted all incriminating evidence secured and removed from the area.

Today they were retrieving the alien remains. Navy trained scuba divers were combing the bottom of the flooded berth, and many pieces of NBE-4 had been retrieved, placed into lead lined boxes, and shipped down to the out-of-state Sector Seven R&D labs to join the shattered wreckage of what used to be NBE-2.

They still hadn't found anything of NBE-3 yet.

Jack stood tall on the walkway overlooking the flooded battlefield. The cargo ship had sunk to the bottom about an hour after the explosive collision that presumably destroyed NBE-3, it's superstructure and the aft deck were still exposed above the water, but it's bow was crumpled and shredded. There was no way it could have survived.

NBE-3 had everyone fooled, it nearly had him fooled. His mind lingered on one particular encounter a week ago.

* * *

_Sector Seven Headquarters -seven days ago_

Jack Burns watched from the observation room as the two newcomers settled into their surroundings. Their hulking forms were wreathed in cables hanging from the ceiling and laid out on the floor; green waves of crackling electricity – energon the eggheads called it – pulsing from their bodies and into the slaved Cray supercomputers. Jack recalled a sci-fi novel he once picked from a bargain bin describing brain parasites that grafted themselves to the nerves and tissue of a host's gray matter, taking control of the victim in the process. It was the closest thing his pessimistic mind could compare to what these… Decepticons were doing.

He had been vocal in his objections of letting the NBEs within even a hundred kilometers of this room, and Powell had just swept in and gave them the keys to the castle on a silver platter. What was the Secretary of Defense thinking? What was President Reagan thinking?! How long was it going to be before they got their metal hands on the nuclear launch codes?

_ "It's incredible!" _Powell's voice gushed excitably through the handheld radio, _"They're combining our technology seamlessly! Satellites, phones, computers – they're creating an interconnected web of information; volumes of data at their fingertips. It's revolutionary!"_

Jack grimaced, turning to General Avery Whalen, his direct superior, "He's a weird guy! Do you notice that about Powell?"

_"They're tracking fluctuations in energon levels! It's like a heat signature specific to their species! It's astonishing, it's beautiful, it's-" _

Whalen switched the handheld off, cutting Powell's excited ranting short, much to Jack's appreciation.

"You've given them our satellites, comms… God knows what else," Jack breathed, venting his anxiety over this entire fucked up situation.

"Yet in the space of a day they've given us a way to not only hunt down B-127 but all of them." He chuckled, sending a reassuring glance to Burns, "Let them finish what they're doing; let them find B-127."

His superior's face hardened, "Then I'll give you permission to destroy them all, use them for spare parts!"

Jack could get behind that idea; really, it's what he had been itching to do since he met those two out on the road in Texas. Both of them, especially the red one, gave him bad vibes. Best to get them first before they can screw him over.

"Sir, yes sir."

The general's aide chose that moment to walk in, "Sir, the Secretary of Defense is on the line."

Whalen scoffed, turning his gaze to Jack before moving to walk out, "Keep an eye on those two until then!"

Jack said nothing in reply, and simply turned his eyes upon the pair of soon-to-be piles of scrap. He started slightly when he noticed the red one's eyes boring into his own. It then held it's hand out towards the observation room and beckoned with two fingers. Unbidden, Jack's hand came up to his chest as an unfamiliar feeling of panic welled up in him, the Decepticon's face twisted into an eerie facsimile of a smirk as it nodded it's head in confirmation.

Had those things heard that conversation? They were buried into Sector Seven like a tick in the flesh of a dog, who knows what they knew now, a less than secure chat with the good general was the least they could listen in on. He supposed he could ignore the machine, but the idea of turning tail and running from these things in his own workplace rankled him intolerably.

Brimming with consternation, Jack walked out of the observatory and into the vaulting Operations Room, taking the flight of metal stairs down to the polished floor. Cables were everywhere, forcing Jack to keep his eyes on the floor as he stepped over them, not willing to find out if his shoes could insulate him effectively from an energon infused line. The techs and eggheads were prancing about like mice on cocaine in the shadow of their guests, one of them nearly bumped into Jack as he stepped into the center aisle.

The pair had caused quite a fuss when they first arrived at the base, they had not deigned to give their names – or numbers most likely – so they had accrued quite a number of alternative addresses. Names such as Thing One and Thing Two, Mrs. Red and Mr. Blue, but were more widely known by their official call signs; Bonnie and Clyde.

Walking up to them, their sheer size seemed oppressive. Powell had placed 'Bonnie' between eighteen and nineteen feet tall – nearly twice the height of B-127 – it's companion 'Clyde' was around a foot and a half shorter. But it was the way they moved that truly made the hairs of his neck stand up; their motions were fluid, refined and purposeful. 'Clyde' moved with brutal deliberation, carefully weighing it's next action before powering through with firm intent; 'Bonnie' moved with the grace of a veteran duelist; no wasted motions, no hesitation, only refined control. He could see why Powell would be so enamored with them, their very presence commanded awe. Jack firmly held onto his suspicions, somebody had to stay objective in this situation.

Bonnie's red eyes tracked him as he came up to it's workplace. The multitudes of cables festooning it's towering frame pulsed with energon, Jack could feel it prickling his skin, the faint scent and taste of ozone was also present. Jack took careful note of the M72 LAW strategically hidden under a nearby desk, and wondered how fast these things could react if he made a grab for it.

When it spoke, it's voice was unmistakably feminine, characterized by a razor sharp authoritativeness and enhanced by a distinctly inhuman flanging sound effect. It was a voice that coerced even the unwilling to take note of it's every word.

"Just so you know, agent Burns; I have uncovered the identities of fifty-two… fifty-three KGB agents, solved the mystery of Lord Kennedy's assassination, and invented the World Wide Web… all in the span of a few hours," the machine 'Bonnie' stated, "And since then I have yet to receive so much as a single thank-you."

Jack was left off balance. Was this thing actually pouting at him?

Powell chose that moment to kiss up to his metallic crush, "Then allow me be the first! Thank you… thank you so much! You are a dream come true!"

"Your… gratitude is noted friend Powell, you may continue," the machine gestured with it's hand in a subtle attempt to shoo away the clingy doctor, visibly cringing.

"We are allowing you access to billions of dollars worth of government property," Jack growled out, "All to find a fugitive that your war sent here. I believe it is you that should be thankful."

The machine chuckled, a reverberating lilt that seemed almost innocent, "There is no need to be so churlish Colonel, though your candor is refreshing; the atmosphere in here is a touch too timid for my liking."

"What do you want?" Jack demanded, losing patience.

The Decepticon's brow plates arched up slightly at his continued belligerence. It was otherwise unperturbed and answered swiftly.

"It has come to our attention that there are security concerns that have yet to be addressed; we would see them resolved."

Clyde gave a low grunt in agreement, it's grilled mouth parts briefly flickering green with the utterance.

"You will have to be more specific," Jack replied, glaring straight into Bonnie's glowing red orbs, "Our security was completely compromised the moment you two walked in here."

"And yet we have complied with your requests to the letter; we have nothing to gain provoking this world's largest super power." It replied calmly.

"How do we know that you haven't been working with the Russians on the side? You could be on the line with the Kremlin right now," he pressed forward, he honestly didn't think they would bother with the Soviets, B-127 was in North America, not Asia. But he wouldn't put anything past these two.

A short dry laugh escaped it's mouth, "The Russians have nothing to offer us, and they will not be around for much longer. The Soviet Union has at most five years left until their fragile system collapses, and the United States is left as this world's sole remaining power of note. We would be fools to throw away such a beneficial alliance in favor of a doomed empire and a failed ideology."

Jack had to hand it to Bonnie, it really knew how to play to a crowd. Throughout the Operations Center, his fellow humans were captivated by this conversation and he could see some of the tension leaving their bodies at it's statements.

"So you say," Jack rebutted, "And that's assuming you are truly here looking to make friends, that's assuming you are actually peacekeepers, and that's assuming I don't already know that you are full of it."

Before the Decepticon could retort, a surprised yelp came from behind him, Jack looked back to see one of the techies had tripped over the cables strewn over the floor. He had been holding a Walkman at the time – strictly against regulations – and it fell out of his grasp, the wire connecting it to his headphones slipped free of the device and an upbeat guitar solo filled the room.

* * *

_'You look like an angel'_

_ 'Walk like an angel'_

_ 'Talk like an angel'_

_ 'But I got wise'_

_ 'You're the Devil in disguise'_

_ 'Oh yes you are'_

_ 'Devil in disguise'_

* * *

The machine suddenly shifted inside it's rubber insulated cat's cradle, causing the numerous cables to sway and flicker with energon as it registered the upbeat tune. Jack, the technicians, Powell, and indeed even 'Clyde' could only watch gormlessly as the outlandishly tall gynoid swayed on it's flared hips to the melodious voice of The King.

'Bonnie' didn't seem to be actively aware of what it was doing, it's hands had noticeably slowed in their ministrations to the light show of monitors floating in front of them. Jack could feel the minute shockwaves of the machine's feet lifting it's heels up and down through the soles of his shoes.

"Amazing… she's amazing," Powell breathed. _'That girl isn't good for you little man.'_

No, not a girl, a machine. Jack continuously reinforced that distinction in his mind as he watched the robot's body swing slowly in place to the music. A machine, and an Elvis fan in the making, but a machine nonetheless. He was afraid if he started to attach human characteristics to them, he would start forgetting what they were – the colossal existential threat they represented to not only his country, but to his entire species.

"Turn that thing off," Jack snapped at the still stunned tech, who after being shocked to stillness by his command for a moment, complied. The moment the Walkman ceased it's crooning, 'Bonnie' had ceased it's movement and it's work. The machine stood there awkwardly for several seconds, an unsettled expression overtaking it's features; it's eyes had dilated to nearly thrice their diameter and had brightened, almost turning pink. There was no mistaking it, that was a blush.

Bonnie quickly reasserted it's dignity, it's eyes shrank but to fiery pinpricks and it's facial plates scrunched into an irritated scowl. Their conversation was now officially over; the Decepticon clearly wanted nothing more than to dig itself a hole and die in it. Jack had half a mind to lend it a shovel; but another part was left speechless – for just a short few moments, it had seemed almost human.

* * *

_Pier Ten, Present Day_

There had been other moments like those, brief instances of genuine expressions of something close to humanity. He had come to unwillingly harbor a fools hope that it – _she – _had enough humanity in her that he could trust in her intentions. He had held back on immediately swinging the jaws of Whalen's trap shut upon their necks, and what did she do next? She had proven his original assumptions right. And he hated her for that.

He wanted her to be dead. She needed to be dead, if only to wash away the shame of his misplaced trust, however brief and unconscious it had been. But the longer the search went on without any trace of her to be found, the higher his anxiety climbed. If she somehow contrived to survive, or worse still escape, he would show her no mercy. It was personal now.

His attention flicked over to the radio tower. It had proven to be by far the most troublesome subject on Sector Seven's to-do list for the afternoon. The transmitter was massive, and had apparently grafted itself into the tower's original structure through some unknown means. Work was slow and the engineers were scratching their heads trying to find a way to safely remove the machinery without damaging it too badly, or worse; turning it back on. The nerds had really been butting heads over the entire issue, and Powell's absence was hardly helping matters.

With Powell gone, leadership of the Extraterrestrial Science division fell to Doctor Neji Fujiyama, an engineering genius with robotic systems who had been working on the remains of NBE-2 ever since they were recovered almost four months ago, and had recently been granted responsibility over something called Project Nightbird.

Fujiyama had not deigned to come on site, having sequestered himself in his lab to await the arrival of the alien remains. In his place, was a woman that Burns was hesitant to interact with. Selena Dahl.

Doctor Selena Dahl was Powell's protege, and was – almost impossibly – even more rabid over the alien guests than her mentor had been. She didn't seem all that broken up about his death at the business end of this very alien's giant cannon. Her office walls were cluttered with photographs of the NBE's from seemingly every possible angle, she appeared to be especially enamored with Bonnie. Or rather, her parts.

He noticed that the crane was reeling up another load of salvage from the depths. One particular item immediately caught his notice and he found himself walking his way over as the loaded tray was lowered down onto the dry concrete.

He beheld the disembodied head of NBE-4.

Clyde's head was in pretty bad shape, but mostly intact. It's optics were dark and lifeless, and it seemed smaller somehow now that the owner was dead. He distinctly remembered that same visage staring darkly down at him whenever he entered the operations room, as if Clyde was plotting on how best to go about killing him, with or without Bonnie's consent. It was strange seeing that glowering war machine reduced to this.

His eyes were drawn again back to the floundered ship, he could see the recon team assembling on it's tilted deck, preparing to penetrate the flooded interior. If they did not find Bonnie, it meant that she was long gone. And it would fall to him to hunt her down and finish the job once and for all. A secret part of him relished in the idea, the rest of him paled with dread. He had seen what Bumblebee could do when cornered, what was Bonnie capable of?

He continued to stare at the ship, preparing himself for what may come.

* * *

**The Manzanillo**

The ship had come up from Baja California last week to load up on imports to ferry back to Mexico; it's return home had been delayed indefinitely through the intercession of quarrelsome alien robots. It's entire hull had been flooded through, including it's mostly empty cargo hold. For the Sector Seven agents combing Pier Ten for NBE-3 'aka Bonnie's' remains, it was the last place they had left to search.

A team of three ex-Navy SEALS were chosen to investigate the bowels of the half-sunken ship. Lieutenant George Sweeny and specialists Philip Norton and Terry Spender were all kitted out in full scuba gear and armed with underwater weaponry that they hoped would be enough to at least deter whatever might be waiting for them down in the hulk long enough for them to escape.

George was hoping Bonnie was dead down there, just like everyone else at the dock who wasn't Agent Dahl, who was hoping to have a live alien to experiment on. Crazy bitch.

_ 'I'll put the big girl out of her misery before it comes to that.' _George thought, staring intently at the device in his hands, a strange hybrid between a speargun and an RPG. It had been flown down at special request from some secret DARPA lab up north. The explosive charge wasn't the most impressive, he would have to aim for the head. _'__If she's lucky, she won't even feel it.'_

He had seen Bonnie up close before she up and turned traitor on them. Her and Clyde had been the most amazing things he had seen in his life, while his enthusiasm wasn't up to Powell levels of absurdity, he found that he could respect them as fellow sentient beings at the very least. Wouldn't stop him from killing her though, or any buddies that might come to Earth after her.

That's all assuming she was even still alive.

They were entering through a deck hatch on the port side. Their ingress order was George followed by Spender and then Norton bringing up the rear with the wire reel. They checked their radios one last time before starting the penetration.

George slipped his black flippers into the silty water and guided himself down the grated stairs before ducking down and submerging into the Manzanillo's flooded interior. He switched the flashlight on, and kicked his flippers to propel himself further into the corridor to make room for his team to follow. Since it had sunk very recently, the walls and floor were still mostly clean, aside from the loose debris that floated to the ceiling or lingered on the deck.

Once he was joined by his team mates, they swam single file down the corridor towards the bow.

Aside from the snap-hiss produced by his rebreather, there was only silence. George led the team in at a slow and steady pace, taking stops at every junction to check corners for any unwanted surprises. He knew Bonnie was far too big to squeeze in through these corridors, but his paranoia and the sheer threat level of the target compelled him to not take any chances.

"We have reached the forward bulkhead," George announced, more for the benefit of his superiors listening in on the line than for his team. "We are now proceeding into the hold."

Gingerly, he reached for the door's handle. To his irritation, he found that the door was securely locked. Alright, they were doing it the fun way.

"Door's locked. Specialist Spender, use the torch." He floated off to the side and back to let Terry come forward with his exothermic torch. After setting himself up, Terry placed the long black rod close to the handle, a brilliant orange flame erupted afterward, displacing the water with jets of oxygen. Ten seconds later, and with more than half the rod burned down, Terry finished the cut. The door swung open easily.

The Manzanillo's forward cargo hold was completely wrecked. Junk was floating all over the place, and the suns rays were faintly visible through the murk, coming in from the shattered bow. Chunks of concrete and twisted steel were scattered all over the deck, becoming more dense the closer they got to the bow. George had to be extra careful not to get too close to the broken metal spars hanging down from the ceiling. Holding his URPG at the ready, he stealthily made his way towards the breach.

The bow was collapsed inwards, a pile of broken concrete and steel plates had filled in the breach, admitting only a few narrow rays of sunshine to illuminate the hold. But he could find no sign of Bonnie.

"Target isn't here," he announced. His flashlight fell over a pile of crushed metal containers, "Wait..."

Swimming over to the boxes, he noted the damage. They were crumpled down the middle, much like a soda can that had stepped on, he also noticed some curious abrasions with red paint rubbed in. Something else caught his attention. A glint of red metal.

Moving closer to inspect it, he noticed that it was stuck into the side of the container. Terry was shining his own light on the object as George fished for his pliers. Bracing himself, George clamped the metal grips onto the piece and pulled, jarring it out after some effort. Elation filled his gut when he realized what he was looking at.

"Disregard that, target _was_ here. Found a piece of her, she's mobile."

_"Understood, proceed with caution."_

He looked at the piece more intently, it spanned the length of his hand, it was smooth and flat, tapering up at the end. Slowly he began to realize what he was looking at. One of Bonnie's more distinctive features was a set of antenna attached to the right side of her head, this was undoubtedly the upper span of the larger antenna. Apparently she had been sent flying by the collision after tearing her way through and the boxes had broken her fall, but she did not come out unscathed. He placed the piece in a nylon bag and attached it to his harness.

_"__Lieutenant, you better come see this. Come back to the starboard side," _Norton's voice came through the comms. George and Terry swam back using the same route they used to move forward. When they came in sight of Norton's flashlight, his heart stilled in his chest and he nearly choked on his air. The starboard bulkhead was gone.

Three beams of light traced the ragged edges of the wall separating the hold from the midship compartments, something had torn its way through the bulkhead and forced it's way into the corridor beyond.

"We've picked up the trail, she's gone aft."

_"__Understood, retreat immediately once contact is confirmed."_

George shared glances with his team. Their widened eyes visible through their masks showed him that they were feeling what he was feeling himself. Terror.

The lieutenant forced his own dread to the back of his mind before kicking his flippers and advancing into the gaping tear. His own example of courage emboldened the others to quickly follow suit.

A trail of complete devastation was laid out before them. Bonnie had torn through the walls of the forward compartments and crew cabins, weaving around major obstructions like support beams and narrow corridors. The path was completely overrun with debris and other hazards; the galley was by far the worst, the traitorous Transformer had torn through one end and out the other, smashing absolutely everything on her way through. But still, George and his team carried on.

How the Hell had nobody heard this happening? There were very few people on the ship when it had crashed into the berth, they had all evacuated immediately after the incident. Had they simply mistaken it for hull stress caused by the collision?

Between the noise produced by his equipment, and the droning pulse of blood pounding through his eardrums at the beat of his nervous heart, George was hard pressed to listen for anything that might signal a giant alien robot coming for him. The Navy had never trained him for anything like this, it was like diving into a shark pack in a suit made of chum, the nerves alone was making him twitchy.

He thought he saw movement up ahead and he sucked down on the rebreather in a brief fit of panic, his heart rate surged. Then something shot out from the darkness. George gave out a muffled shout and nearly fired his weapon, before he got a better look at what had nearly hit him. It was a small shark, roughly the size of his leg.

Still jumpy, the team calmed themselves as the shark swam away towards the front of the ship. George watched it disappear and frowned behind his mask. How had that thing gotten into the ship? He turned his light back down the trail Bonnie left behind and continued onwards.

The path turned left towards the starboard hull, it continued on for ten more meters before ending at a massive hole.

A large gaping rent was torn out of the side of the ship, leading outside into the flooded berth. The tiered incline of the berth walls blocked the way out, but that wouldn't have been a problem when the ship was still afloat. The edges of the breach were bent outwards, and bore the unmistakable scuffs of Bonnie's red paint.

Sighing with relief on the inside – but also feeling troubled – George called in the bad news.

"Negative on contact, large breach on aft starboard side; Bonnie has flown the coop."

* * *

**Charlie Watson**

It is amazing how life simply goes on. She first noticed it after her father had died from heart attack, there was a funeral, mother and Otis had cried, and then everything fell back into place, except for the little things. From that point onward, there had been an empty space at the table, the '57 Corvette languished in the garage collecting dust, and it seemed everything had righted itself. To everyone besides her it was as if her father had not existed at all.

And now Bumblebee was gone.

He had only been in her life for a few days. But in that short time, he had uplifted her in a way she had not experienced since her dad had been alive. He had been a bright splash of color in her otherwise dull and monotone existence, his presence had made everything brighter, she found herself smiling willingly when he was close. She loved him, she was sure her father would have loved him too, and that's why she had to let him go.

Bumblebee never would have been safe around her with Sector Seven actively hunting him and aware of his connection to her. Even if agent Burns no longer wished to hurt Bee, his job would compel him to do it anyway, and she would not be able to rescue him a second time. It had been the hardest decision she had ever made, but it was the right one.

She was still kinda peeved that he could have been a Camaro all along, and that she had been stuck with the Volkswagen deathtrap.

With Bee gone she was reduced back to riding her moped, though that would not be for long. The government had set up her and her family with hush money to keep them quiet about the entire fracas and the giant robot aliens, and as unofficial thanks for saving the world. Mom and Ron would be putting the money towards repairing and redecorating the house from the devastation caused by Bumblebee's curious misadventures and to set Otis and her up for college; Charlie had an idea of her own on that front. With all this cash, Charlie not only had enough money to get her father's old corvette up and running, she had more than enough to completely restore the vehicle back to pristine condition. She was thinking of painting it yellow, red wasn't a good color for her after witnessing Bee's final battle.

But between the car and higher education she had another conundrum on her hands. One that was just as personal as honoring her dad's legacy.

Bumblebee's old radio.

Charlie had held onto it after replacing it with the corvette's to restore a semblance of verbal communication to the cute bot. She had been working on it since she had seen him off yesterday, and found that it might actually be salvageable. The Sector Seven agents that scoped out the house following Bee's capture had not found it, they surely would have confiscated it if they had known. She had a theory about the radio, it was part of him, so it might still be connected to him in some way; if she could repair it, perhaps the distance between them wouldn't matter anymore.

It was this thought that had driven her to relentlessly slave over the deceptively complicated device. This wasn't just some old radio, it was alien technology in disguise. She had spent most of the afternoon crawling through uncle Hank's scrap yard searching for parts and pieces she could use to repair both of her cherished possessions, and was now well on her way back home. Her mom would probably chew her out for staying out late, but with everything she had already been through, a few hours over the limit seemed a trifling misdemeanor in comparison.

Pulling up to the cul-de-sac where hers and Memo's house laid upon, Charlie immediately noticed something fishy. A very familiar vehicle, with a very familiar insignia branded upon the door; Sector Seven. What did they want now?

Charlie frowned, she dismounted her moped and wheeled into the garage. She then reached for the door leading into the house, but before she could touch it the door swung open and a pair of arms encircled her shoulders.

Sally Watson held onto her eldest child for dear life, her arms shaking with emotion. Charlie was starting to get confused and more than a little bit embarrassed by her mother's actions, but did nothing to stop her. Her mother did not normally act like this, something must be seriously wrong.

"Mom? What's wrong?"

"I- I told you to be home by four!" Her mother exclaimed shrilly, "We thought you were dead!"

"Dead?" Charlie asked, suddenly confused. What had brought this on?

"It's too dangerous to be out at this hour! Come, Agent Burns has something he needs to tell you."

The dining room was mostly intact from Bumblebee's brief sojourn out of the garage, and once more agent Burns was seated at the table.

"Miss Watson," the scarred man greeted, "I just got finished informing your parents of a potentially dangerous development."

Charlie, unsure of where all of this was going took a seat on the other side of the table, mom was hovering nearby and looked dead set on not going anywhere away from her.

"My organization has recently been conducting retrieval operations at Pier Ten. Good news first; you will be pleased to know that the rogue machine known as NBE-4 – also known as Clyde – has been confirmed destroyed."

Well that was a given, Charlie had seen that robot explode first hand. It was nothing less than what that monster deserved for torturing and nearly killing Bumblebee at McKinnon Airfield; Charlie had never imagined she would be happy to see something die that much.

"The bad news is we didn't find the other one."

He pushed a laminated photo of a face she had hoped to never see again. It was that red colored female robot, the one that had nearly killed her with a missile the day Bee had been captured, the one that had nearly killed her friend the night before last. Her heart lurched in her chest as she recalled how Bumblebee had struggled against the overwhelmingly superior opponent, he had been knocked down again and again, unable to maintain any kind of advantage against his enemy. She recalled how that battle ended, the runaway ship carrying it away to the other end of the dock and the massive explosion that signaled it's demise.

The creature in the photograph seemed to stare right into her soul, the suggestive expression it wore appeared mocking and downright disdainful.

"That's impossible, I saw the explosion," she breathed, not wanting it to be true.

"NBE-3, also known as Bonnie," Burns continued, shooting Ron a warning look when he chuckled at the name, "Is as of now missing in action, confirmed active. It survived by forcing it's way into the ship, and some time later it forced it's way out and exfiltrated from the berth through the open sea gate and into the Bay. We still cannot confirm what caused the explosion, but it may have been Bonnie's way of faking it's own death to secure an escape."

Charlie shrunk in on herself. This was too much, that _demon_ was still out there. Bonnie would go after Bee again, only next time she would not make any mistakes, Bumblebee had only narrowly escaped death last time. Her breath caught in her throat when she recalled the red alien's furious proclamation.

_"__After I kill you, __**I'll kill her!**__" _

It wasn't just Bee that she was after. She was coming for her too. Her eyes turned from her mom, to Ron, her mind turned to Otis and Memo. Panic gripped her. She wouldn't stop with just her, that monster was going to kill all of them!

"What- what are you going to do?"

"We are going to hunt down and eliminate NBE-3. And to safeguard your family, we will have agents watching your house, we will also install special equipment around the neighborhood to warn us and you if Bonnie comes here."

Charlie mentally noted that, that would include Bumblebee as well.

"And if necessary, you will be admitted to the Witness Protection Program and given a new home and new identities."

"I want to be James Bond!" Otis suddenly called out, leaning in from the hallway next to the dining room.

His mother was not amused, "Go back to sleep Otis, or you're grounded!"

Otis was having none of it, there was something exciting afoot and he wanted to be a part of it.

"But I'm a hunted man now mom! There's a big mechanical madwoman after me!" Otis paused and looked at Burns, "It is a girl robot, right?"

"_It _is an _it,_" Burns stated flatly, echoing his previous assessment of Bumblebee.

Otis rushed forward and grabbed the photograph still lying in front of Charlie and running back before his mother could snatch him. His eyes greedily drank in the face of NBE-3, noting the aggressive geometry of her features and luminous red optics.

"I'm being hunted by the Terminator…" Otis whispered, looking at the picture with awe filled expression, "That's _awesome!_"

Fed up with her son's insubordination, Sally Watson grabbed Otis by the ear and dragged him – heedless of his protests – back into the hall whilst lecturing him about following directions and watching R-rated movies. An awkward silence filled the dining room before Charlie's mom returned, the stress lines in her face having noticeably deepened.

With Otis properly returned to his room, Burns laid everything down. He went into detail about Bonnie – or whatever her true name was – and spoke on her capabilities. She was capable of shifting seamlessly from a land vehicle to an aircraft, was a formidable tactician, and possessed an uncanny knack for interfacing with and re-purposing human technology. Beyond that Sector Seven had not been able to garner much information about her, both she and her partner had been very evasive when it came to personal details but it was known that she was more than four million years old.

Four million years. That was how long the two had said their war had been going on when questioned by Sector Seven following their reception in Texas. Charlie had never really thought about how old Bumblebee had been when they were together, she had assumed him to be pretty young. Now she realized that he might very well predate human civilization many times over.

It saddened Charlie greatly to realize that Bumblebee had most likely known nothing but endless warfare for his entire long existence. It also explained how he knew how to fight like that. The term 'child soldier' came to mind, and Charlie could feel tears creeping into her eyelids.

Burns then turned his instructions toward how her family was to operate. They were all now under curfew, nobody was to leave the home during evening hours. They were advised to avoid going into unpopulated areas alone and to stick to busy areas of town for cover and to minimize opportunities for a potential attack. And above all they were to stay away from seemingly abandoned vehicles, and to keep an eye out for low flying aircraft – especially if they were military designs.

She didn't speak that much through the entire meeting, simply too overwhelmed to say more than a few words at a time. The sun had already slid down the horizon by the time Burns had cleared everything up and took his leave, presumably to hunt down his new quarry. Charlie went to her bedroom without getting dinner, her hunger was the last thing on her mind.

Charlie now knew the name of her enemies; Decepticons.

She recalled the image that Bumblebee had projected in the forest and again at McKinnon Airfield. _'__You must protect the planet. If the Decepticons find it, then our people are truly finished.'_

Charlie simply laid back on her bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. Why had her life become so complicated? Over a week ago she would have done anything to break the monotony that had taken hold of her life, but this? This was too big for her. What was she supposed to do? Fighting against evil giant robots was a fair bit beyond her abilities, she had always needed Bumblebee to protect her from them, and now all she had was Sector Seven and they had already dropped the ball by working with Bonnie and Clyde. Such stupid names.

It was clear that Bumblebee's friends were on the ropes right now, and that these Decepticons were winning the war at the moment. That is if they hadn't won already. There was nothing she could do to alter that fact.

She looked at the picture frame standing atop her dresser. Her father looked smiling back at her, and set into the corner, Bumblebee's old Volkswagen Bug form could be seen next to her in the background. An unquenchable resolve filled Charlie in that moment. She might not be able to fight his war, but she could still fight for her friend.

She pulled the dresser open and lifted a stack of shirts up to reveal a certain busted old car radio sitting at the bottom.

Charlie wasn't about to let that Decepticunt get the drop on Bumblebee. But in order to reach him, she had to get this radio working.

It was her only hope. And she didn't even know if this would work. But she had to try.

_'__I'm fighting for you buddy.'_

* * *

**Author's Note: Longest chapter so far. It took me a while to get everything down. So quick explanations, Megatron is not frozen on Earth in this universe, he's busy leading his army on Cybertron so Bumblebee is now NBE-1. Also note that I am following Travis Knight's scaling for the transformers, making Bumblebee around ten feet tall, Shatter just over eighteen, and Optimus Prime around twenty. Further on that note, I have no intention of staying true to the Bayverse, this movie was a reboot, and my direction will reflect that.**


	4. When Dreams Die

'_Where am I__?' _Donny thought as he examined his surroundings. He was in a pastel white room, it was brightly lit but he could see no light fixtures anywhere. It had four walls and a door, but nothing else.

Whenever he had misbehaved in middle school, he could recall being locked for up to half an hour in a room just like this. He could hear voices from the other side of the door, quite clearly as if the door wasn't even there.

Donny warily approached the door, the now pristine tips of his racing gloves touched the door handle and turned it. The door was locked from the other side.

"Hey! Can somebody let me out?" He called, hoping the voices on the other side would hear him.

_"- why won't he wake up? Wake up Donny!" _He recognized the voice of one of his kid sisters, though he couldn't tell which one.

"Susan? Kelly? Can you unlock the door? I'm trapped!" He called out to them, but the twins apparently did not hear him.

_"__Donald Noel Davis, Born July 6, 196__3__… admitted on June 13, 1987… catastrophic accident… has been unresponsive for..."_He knew that voice too, it was that moderately hot news anchor from channel seven. Why did he remember that of all things? Was he on TV in the other room? _'__Why are they saying my name on the news?'_

The voices died away, and he thought that was the end of it. And then he felt someone touch his arm. He jerked away from the contact, but there was nobody there. Another touch, he could feel the warm press of a wet sponge run over his chest.

"No… no, stop it!" He shouted, but the violation continued, until his whole body started feeling moist, "Stop fucking touching me!" He attacked the door again, but it was still securely locked, not even budging from the frame.

This torment continued, every other minute unseen hands reached out to molest him, voices from beyond the door talked to and around him. Holly, his Mom and Dad, his sisters, Patrick and Jonathan, all of their voices he could hear from time to time, whispering words to him and sometimes he could feel a warm invisible hand grip his own.

Holly said she loved him once, she really shouldn't. She didn't know the truth; guilt festered within him at the thought of Autumn. She deserved to know the truth.

Occasionally he heard more on the news, but nothing important. He still had no idea how much time had gone by.

Then, suddenly, the door slipped ajar.

* * *

Donny's eyes opened blearily, he was no longer in _the_ _R__oom_. Now he was somewhere else, he was lying down on a bed. There was someone else in the room with him, he could not make out too many details but Donny was fairly certain it was a woman. He tried to speak, but words failed him. His voice was gone, somebody had taken it!

He tried to do something anything to catch the woman's attention, but she was already heading for the door. Darkness pulled at his vision and he was powerless against it.

* * *

The door clicked shut, and he was back in _the Room_ again.

A new pattern asserted itself, from time to time the door would open a little bit and he would find himself back in the world he left behind, but he was always pulled back into _the Room _in the end. He could not escape it.

One time, he had seen his father, dressed in uniform and nodded off on a chair next to his bed. Why wasn't he doing anything? Why hasn't he rescued him from these people? He looked ten years older, and tired to the bone. He tried to move, to do something, to say anything, but his voice remained as elusive as ever. Maybe his kidnappers had taken it? Why is dad letting them do this to him?

Another time, he caught them in the act of touching him. They were scrubbing his naked flesh with lukewarm water and soft sponges, he had never before felt to humiliated in his life. He hated them, he hated them all for keeping him here! He was almost relieved when they sent him back to _the Room._

Most of the time however, he was as alone in the _Other Room _as he was in the one he was in right now.

Instead of a simple crack, the door swung wide open and the light beyond overwhelmed him.

* * *

Opening his eyes once again, more cognizant than he had been other times, Donald took in the _other Room_ with clearer eyes. More flowers were placed beside him, and a banner reading 'Happy Birthday!' hung on the wall in front of the bed.

Donny shifted his arm without even thinking it, and the impact on his mind was instantaneous. He could move again! His entire body felt so stiff and weak, even small movements caused his muscles to ache and twitch. What had these people done to him?! He felt like a stranger in his own flesh, the very thought of it made him sick in his stomach.

He needed to get in touch with his family, call the police and let them know where he was so that they could arrest the freaks that did this to him.

His stomach clenched when he noticed someone walk into the room. A woman again. She didn't seem to register his presence, seemingly regarding him as little more than another piece of furniture. He tried to speak, but only a soft squeak escaped his throat. She still hadn't noticed him and was simply tidying up the place. He redoubled his effort, trying to shout at her.

A zombie-like groan was all that he could produce. But it had made her pause, and finally look at him.

His kidnapper slowly walked over to his bedside, and he tracked her with his eyes. She looked surprised to see him awake and uttered a soft "oh" before backing away and retreating out the door.

_'Coward… coward! Come back and face me!' _he snarled mentally, his anger slowly rising as much as his tired mind would allow. It did help him wake up a little more.

Some time later, hours or minutes he could not tell, the door opened again to admit a middle aged man with graying brown hair and cool green eyes, he wore a white coat and khaki pants with a simple blue collared shirt and a cheap red tie.

"We are glad to have you back Mister Davis," the man said kindly, "Don't worry about your voice, it's a common side effect from your ordeal and will return in good time. You are currently recovering in St. Mary's Medical Center in San Francisco, you had an accident on the Laguna Seca speedway."

Recovering? In a hospital? Leguna Seca? So he hadn't been kidnapped?

"I am Doctor Parrot, I have been in charge of your well being since you were released from Intensive Care," the man – Parrot – continued. Well that explained the white coat, kind of a dead give away now that he was thinking about it. How hard did he hit his head?

The doctor paused and looked at him with sadness, "There is no easy way to say this, but you have been in a trauma induced coma for the past six weeks."

Donny's breathing increased in pace as panic overtook his thoughts. _'Six… what, did he say six months?! Oh my God, it's been six years!'_

"The accident left you critically injured, we had to operate; I will spare you the details for now, but suffice to say the procedure was a complete success and you will make a full recovery. Unfortunately, there is some scarring and atrophy..."

Donny tilted his head and lifted up an arm, gone was the tone and the light tan. The limb was skinny and pasty white from disuse and lack of exposure to sunlight, he was fairly certain that the rest of him had been similarly reduced.

He still could not speak, but he felt tears gathering in his eyes. How much had he missed out on? It was a given that he had slept through a birthday, he was now twenty-four; but what else had he lost? Did he still have a job? Had his loved ones already given up hope on him ever coming out of it?

That doctor kept droning on about something or other, but Donny had lost the energy to listen and had slipped into a state of half-consciousness, still wary of going out lest he slip back into _the Room. _He was half convinced that these people were somehow responsible for making him stay in there for so long.

He settled for ignoring the doctor, too tired of listening and being unable to answer. Parrot noticed this after a while and stopped.

"Get some rest Mr. Davis, we can talk later."

He watched the doctor's back as he walked out of the room. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted to go home.

* * *

The sun was starting to set when his family came to visit him. The way he had treated them all like pests at Laguna Seca, it had all come back to haunt him. Donny did not usually allow things like guilt and remorse to linger in his thoughts for very long, and felt completely unprepared to process it now.

His vision had mostly cleared up at this point. He could make out the wary looks his family was giving him, as if one wrong move could send him back to an unresponsive state. Donny was also fearful of that possibility, in spite of how tired he felt he refused to go to sleep; he did not want to go back to _the Room._

Donny took a deep breath and struggled to form words.

"H-hi..." He rasped, his voice barely audible. His mother was upon him in an instant, her arms embracing his weakened body as she sobbed gratefully into his shoulder. Donny was only able to just shift an arm around her back.

"I thought- I thought I had lost you," she croaked, her eyes puffy. Donny could make out more worry lines than he had remembered her previously having, along with bags under her eyes that hinted she had not been sleeping properly for quite some time.

"M' sorry," Donny whispered quietly. He wished he could say more, but speaking still took a lot out of him.

**"****Donny!" **His twin sisters exclaimed excitedly in perfect sync with each other, before joining their mother in hugging their bed ridden big brother. Donny's heart raced at the sudden contact, and darkness began creeping at the edges of his vision; he willed himself not to faint, not now, not in front of his family.

"Alright ladies give him some air," his father intervened, likely noticing Donny's distress. The three hesitated before stepping back to stand off to either side of his bed. His mother was still struggling with her emotions; she was wringing her hands – a nervous tic Donny had become quite familiar with when he had been going through puberty and had started to notice girls for the first time.

"We… we made you some cards!" Kelly said at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "For your birthday, and for when you woke up!"

Two cards, one for the birthday he had missed, another for his recovery. He could tell Susan had made the birthday card, her art skills were unusually advanced for such a young age, the lines of his Mazda RX-7 on the front were well defined, as was the image of him holding a 1st place trophy on the back. Kelly had done the get well card, it was decorated with macaroni noodles glued to the borders with a rough picture of the girls embracing a passing likeness of him on the front.

"Th'nks," Donny mumbled, a weak grin spreading slowly across his face. The twin sisters visibly brightened at his slurred response to their efforts. And to think, just six weeks ago he had seen them as nothing more than annoyances, obstacles even. What in the Hell was he thinking?

His sisters took the role of filling him in on everything he had missed out on. The Russians hadn't nuked them yet – a given – they went over how his birthday had gone, the quiet celebration they had thrown him in the recovery ward, and their various experiences over the six week period. Donny took it all in with a small smile.

Donny looked again at his cards, more specifically the one with his prized Mazda on it. He looked to his parents.

"Wh't h'eppn, c-uhar?" He tried enunciating, finding it was starting to get a little bit easier with practice.

Donny's parents looked at each other, before his mother addressed his sisters, "Girls, can you wait outside for a moment. We need to have a word with your brother in private."

The two looked disappointed but obediently did as they were asked, the door shut behind them with a heavy click, leaving the two parents alone with their eldest offspring. Roger Davis regarded his son very carefully before speaking.

"The car is totaled," his father spoke levelly, "And that's for the best."

The Mazda was gone? He couldn't rightly recall the exact details of his crash, everything was a blur to him. Donny had poured his heart, soul, and his wallet into that car, it was his pride and joy! How the fuck could losing an eleven-thousand dollar vehicle – one he hadn't finished paying off yet – be considered a good thing?! And that wasn't even getting to how much money he had put into tuning it for peak performance!

"Bu- but..." He tried, but his mother fixed him with a piercing stare that halted his attempts to object in their tracks.

"You almost died, Donny," his mother spoke gravely, "I can't… I saw your car fly off the track! And when I saw them carry your body from the wreck I thought you were already gone! I- I- we can't go through that again!"

She was tearing up again, "Promise me Donald, please. No more racing."

Give up racing? He had his heart set on the idea since he became a teenager. He had built his own soapbox racer, moved up to go-karts, hit the tracks as soon as he got his license, and had dedicated himself to mastering his machine every chance he got. He had gotten a taste of his dream at Laguna Seca, and had fallen even deeper in love with the idea, and then he fell back to Earth. He had found himself fearing the touch of death.

And then there was his family. His fixation – no his obsession – had driven him close to severing his bonds with them; and that was unforgivable. But what was he going to do if he closed this door? What kind of future would he have if he gave up his dreams? He had no idea.

But one thing was clear, for his parents sake, for his sisters sake, he could not go on like he had before.

Donny set his jaw, his heart fell in his chest as he concentrated on saying his next words with perfect, sanguine clarity.

"I promise."

* * *

**Bumblebee**

Nevada was a different change of pace from California, Bumblebee decided. It was drier for one, and he found himself missing the sound of the sea on his audio receptors, there was also fair bit less in the way of human life out here; not that he was complaining mind, his encounters with humans had mixed results thus far. This world was very different from the wartorn one he had left behind, but he had grown to appreciate what it had to offer a little mech like himself.

There were no Decepticons of course – at least not anymore – and as such he had been able to let his guard down here and there, but not entirely. He knew Sector Seven was keeping an optic out for any sign of him, and humanity was nothing if not persistent.

He had also discovered friendship.

Charlie Watson, a human femme on the cusp of full adulthood, not much unlike himself a few hundred vorns ago. To anyone else, the time they had spent together would have been little more than a handful of klicks compared to the eons long companionships that many of his brothers and sisters in arms enjoyed. But from his perspective it felt like he had known Charlie for ages, and yet not nearly long enough.

His spark had already been germinating a guardian bond with her by the time his memory cells reactivated. He would have been happy to remain with her a while longer, but sadly it was not to be. Charlie was not safe around him anymore, his spark felt like breaking when she reminded him of his duty to the planet.

And she had been correct. His mission had to come first, he needed to find a secure location large enough to host Optimus Prime's resistance cell, and any other Autobots who were wandering the stars. To this end he was scoping out the roads least traveled, hoping to find the ideal spot to start his little project.

Optimus had not sent him all the way out here with nothing. Over the last several megacycles, he had begun picking up signals from the outer Solar System; Autobot signals. While he wished they were reinforcements, alas their ID transponders had them clearly listed as logistics pods, the tools he needed to get everything set up.

The only problem was getting everything down to Earth without arousing too much suspicion from the humans. The organization known as NORAD was constantly observing the skies above North America for anything that might be a Soviet missile, and he was fairly certain Sector Seven had the defense agency under their influence to some extent. But Bumblebee had a plan.

Bumblebee always had a plan.

The Sol system was a rather messy place, trillions of pieces of debris of all sizes orbited the sun, and it was a simple matter to direct the drones conveying the supply pods to redirect a swarm of space rocks towards Earth as they approached. None of the objects were dangerous, Bumblebee had done the math, most of them would burn up in the atmosphere and the rest would be too small and land in areas too remote to cause problems. It was the perfect cover for his supply drop.

The humans in Sector Seven would probably be suspicious of this anomalous meteor swarm popping out of the blue, but they would have no idea where his precious cargo would be coming down.

Bumblebee rolled to a stop next to a rocky outcropping and smoothly shifted into his true form. His large cerulean optics took in the evening skies, already starting to darken, the sun wouldn't be setting for a few more hours. The young mech climbed atop the rocks, hauling his frame onto the largest boulder which had a slightly flattened top. And he waited.

Five points of light appeared in the heavens above, his battlemask snapped into place and he zoomed his focus onto them, picking out spherical shapes shrouded by long tails of fire generated by air friction. Other pinpricks of light could be seen tracing the sky, not nearly as impressive as a true meteor shower, but his radio receiver was picking up excited telecasts describing the event taking place all over North America.

As the objects fell deeper into Earth's atmosphere, the air began to drastically slow down their rate of descent, until the fiery tails petered out. Once the objects fell beneath radar detection, they began maneuvering into a tighter formation and altering their course for his position. Bumblebee did not twitch so much as a single servomotor when they smashed into the earth in front of him in near perfect unison, throwing five plumes of dirt high into the air.

Bumblebee jumped off the rock and back onto the dry soft packed earth, his pedes sinking slightly into it as the energy from his fall was absorbed.

His optics settled on the five objects partially buried into the earth. They were silver in color, with a faint hex texture covering their surfaces, the Autobot insignia colored in red was visible on all of the pods. When Bumblebee approached the cluster, the pod in the center split apart, startling the young mech.

Out of the hollow shell, a strange machine floated out and above the rest of the pods. It possessed a smooth elliptical shape, with a pure white wraparound housing and an optics cluster set into it's lower forward face and an anti-gravity repulsor built into it's tail section. It's three optics pulsed blue as it floated over to the stunned Bumblebee who had already taken his compact riot cannon out of his subspace.

"Identity confirmed: Recon Specialist B-127," the drone stated in a masculine baritone.

**.:What are you?:. - Bumblebee **

"I am L33-M0, advanced cassette prototype. I have been programmed by Master Perceptor to aid in the colonization of Earth for the glory of the Autobot Alliance!" The machine replied with startling enthusiasm.

A cassette? Those were rare among the Autobots, the Decepticons however made extensive use of them. The insignia of his faction was proudly born upon the front of the drone, right on the plate fixed above the optics cluster. Sliding his weapon back into subspace, the scout allowed his guard to lower.

**.:You are certainly enthusiastic:. - Bumblebee**

"My creator personally coded my personality matrix to bolster the morale of our troops! It is a tremendous pleasure to be in your presence honored soldier!" _'Leemo' _enthused, floating up close to Bumblebee's helm, "Together we will build a fortress like none other! And when we are ready we will march back to Cybertron and bring our fight for freedom to the door of Megatron himself!"

A small ray of light emitted out from beneath Leemo's optic cluster, scanning Bumblebee from pedes to helm, a moment later the cassette's white body turned yellow, perfectly matching Bumblebee's own color. "To assist you in your noble duty, I am optimized to integrate into your framework and boost key aspects of your functionality, most notably the addition of a kinetic shield and a cloaking field."

Wait, integrate? Bumblebee wouldn't lie, cassettes kind of creeped him out. There was something about having an autonomous machine roosting in his framework that put him off. But it was for the mission, and a stealth field would have come in handy when he first dropped onto this world.

**.:Fine, but you better not do anything weird:. -Bumblebee**

The lemon shaped drone floated around him and positioned itself behind his back plates. Out of the corner of his optic, Bumblebee watched the cassette flatten it's body, and mold itself to the contours of his frame, settling itself securely between his winglets, endowing the scout with an odd hunched appearance. He then became aware of something brushing close to his processor, the cassette's drone brain linking it's runtimes to his own.

**.:Interface complete, soldier!:. - L33-M0**

Almost immediately, a sensation of static washed over his tactile receptors. Curiously, Bumblebee ran a digit along the length of his other servo and encountered resistance a few hairsbreadths from the surface of his plating, a frictionless invisible coating that while malleable to a slow moving digit, would be extremely durable to anything coming at him at higher velocities. It wasn't too impressive, but it would definitely help keep his aft intact if he got into another mishap with the humans.

A few moments later, the kinetic shield collapsed and his servo faded from sight. It wasn't perfect invisibility, there were subtle distortions and warping that would give away his position if anyone looked hard enough, but when used in tandem with his usual sneaking skills, Bumblebee doubted anyone would ever notice his presence unless he allowed it, or Unicron had it in for him. The cloak deactivated, but the shield did not return. No use wasting precious energon when he didn't have to.

Turning his attention to the other pods he approached the closest one and relayed his identification codes to the whole set. The pods shifted, and panels unfurled from their sides with anti-gravity plates fitted beneath them. The spheres lifted off the ground and hovered stationary a few feet above their individual craters. A notification pinged him from the closest one and he received a short text file which imposed itself upon his vision.

* * *

_/__To: __Earth/__Senior Lieutenant Cliffjumper/__Recon __Specialist B-127_

_ /From: AAF CENTRCOM/ S__cience Commander__ Perceptor_

_Assuming successful establishment of base camp, your mission is to proceed forthwith. Construction drones are pre-programmed to __begin initial development in whichever site you deem fit. The Decepticons are relentless in their pursuit of us, and as such we can send only so much to Earth at one time. Below I have compiled a rough schedule for future deliveries. Stay strong soldiers, we will join you when we can._

_2 Quartexes: Cell 2: Medical equipment, energon rations, secondary excavation unit_

_ 4 Quartexes: Cell 3: Nucleon Reactor, small arms package #4, energon rations_

_ 6 Quartexes: Cell 4: Hyperpulse Generator, MA-41 Supercomputer_

_ 8 Quartexes: __Cell 5:__ Energon converter_

_ 10 Quartexes: Cell __6__: __Collapsible washracks, subspace reservoir, medical equipment_

* * *

The list went on. Each shipment coming in at roughly two month intervals, and it would all be down to him and this little cassette to sort through it all. No mentions of how long it would take for the first groups of Autobots to start arriving; but knowing how badly the war was going, it could easily be years before he sees another comrade. At least when the Hyperpulse Generator arrived, he could start sending and receiving messages, it would be a little ways into the next solar return before it arrived.

Bumblebee closed the file, his spark sitting heavy inside his chassis. It had never truly sunk in yet, how the hopes of his family was riding on his shoulder struts. They were on the run, and while it was not mentioned, a few of them were missing. Either dead, lost in wild space, or still fighting on Cybertron. And those who did live were being hunted down by the Decepticons.

The Autobot sighed from his vents – a trait he had picked up from Charlie – and shifted into his alternate mode. At a silent command, the supply drones hovered behind his tailplate as he took off, turning about to the south-west towards his pre-selected construction site. He wasn't going to be getting much time for recharge once it all started, what with Cliffjumper's duty assignments being _his _assignments for the time being.

He knew deep in his processor that Cliffjumper was most likely offline. He had been one of the few who had been able to escape Iacon through the many pod towers scattered throughout the burning city, and was supposed to rendezvous with him on Earth weeks ago. Shatter and Dropkick must have found him first, and Bumblebee had no illusions of how that confrontation could have gone. Shockwave's elite soldiers rarely took prisoners, and when they did it was to bring them to a fate far worse than death.

At least Cliffjumper had been avenged in the end. The short nighttime skirmish over the marina tower had seen to it.

He recalled that fight very clearly. It had been the closest Bumblebee had been to being offlined for a long time; if it hadn't been for Shatter's emotional instability, that battle would have probably gone differently. He remembered the look of total devastation and rage burning in her fiery optics, her logic center had clearly been offline for most of the fight.

Her destruction hadn't brought the same kind of satisfaction that Blitzwing or even Dropkick's had given him. That fight was far too personal for his liking, in the end he could neither hate her nor forgive her actions. But he did pity her somewhat. In the end, the only things he could appreciate from Shatter's death was the fact she could no longer threaten Charlie, this planet, or his people.

Above all that fight had reminded him of a lesson Optimus Prime had tried imparting on him the first time he had taken a Decepticon's life in battle. Bumblebee had been sparked during the war, he had no memories of what Cybertron had been like before Megatron had brought it to ruin; more importantly he had no memories of a time when his people had stood as one. The Decpeticons had always been this insidious 'other' to him, being reared by the Autobots, he had seen them as non-Cybertronians, little more than base machinery bent to Megatron's will.

_'__They may be our enemies, but they are still our people.' _Optimus had said, short and to the point.

Bumblebee had not thought much on the Prime's words back then. Autobots and Decepticons had nothing in common with each other aside from mutual hatred. But since that time there were moments when his simplistic view of the universe was turned upside down. All those times when he saw a 'Con cry out an offlined comrade's name in anguish, when he spied on the savage foe as they recharged in their camps telling longing stories to one another of times before the war.

And then there were the 'Cons who snapped. Their optics ablaze with pain and fury, launching themselves recklessly into the fray until they were eventually gunned down by him and his fellow Autobots. He had seen those same optics in comrades who had lost their squads in the unremitting cycle of attack and retaliation. He had seen those same optics in Shatter after he offlined Dropkick.

Yes he really did pity her. But he harbored no regrets either.

As he drove off into the setting sun, with the drones flying in formation behind him; he wondered if Shatter was at least content with where she was now.

* * *

**?**

Imagine your own body as a prison cell. That is the reality of stasis lock; working on minimal power with everything other than my most vital components kept offline, and my senses dampened to the lowest setting.

Even in it's inactive state, my body was a maelstrom of naturally occurring em fields, and subspace pockets. Bafflingly foreign in it's intricacy.

I have no idea how long I have stayed like this, perhaps a couple of breems or a thousand eons had passed since I had been dragged into this oppressive unconsciousness. Time had no meaning to a Decepticon in stasis. Worst still, I had no idea how I landed in this state, my primary memory cells are among the systems that went offline when the stasis lock gripped me. I would not know until after it had ended.

I had been heavily damaged, I could tell that much. Self-repair nanites moved sluggishly through my systems, far less efficiently than if I had been at full power and been completely refreshed with energon.

One fact that I was sure of; I am a warrior. Though I do not feel particularly brave or really skilled, I knew that my greater self was quite formidable in her own right.

I was simply a small splinter of something infinitely vaster. I don't rightly recall how I came to be, or how long it has been since I split off from the whole; but I do know who was responsible.

_A vast mech looming over me. Purple plating, one cyclopean yellow optic. A monster completely void of all emotion, all restraint, and all morality._

Since that time, whenever the Whole went into stasis or a deep recharge, I remained cognizant. That purple monster had broken the Whole, leaving me to suffer the waking world while the rest of me was dead to it.

I was a glitch in the system.

Luckily I was just a tiny part, else the Whole would have gone insane long ago. As for me, I did not have enough memories to go insane; but I still had recollections that did not register in the memory cell array.

But for the most part, it was just senseless oblivion.

Wait, something was triggering a proximity alarm. Something is touching me. Sensing potential danger, my tyrannical logic center permitted a small burst of power to enter some of my secondary systems.

**Emergency protocols: engaged**

** Partial emergence commencing: 3… 2… 1...**

My senses opened up. I am underwater, high saline content, moderate pollution levels. Two contacts were in my immediate vicinity, my logic center did a quick search through the briefly activated data codex. Humans, primitive air breathing apparatus, heavy load bearing cables. I wished to know more, but there was no defying the logic center.

My sensors registered my tires leaving the sea bed, I was being pulled to the surface! Are they rescuing me? When I cleared the water, the tiny molecular optics on my outer skin not covered by rust looked up to see a large, orange colored crane arm holding me up by a set of cables, a few humans were watching as I was hauled up the side of the stone bay wall.

The wheels of my alt mode touched dry land for the first time in who knew how long.

"God damn… what a tragedy," one of the humans murmured, placing a hand on my rusted body, "She must have been gorgeous."

My dimmed spark shrunk in my ruined chassis at that statement. I was gorgeous once, why am I not anymore? What happened to me? I begged the logic engine to reactivate my memory cells, I had to know! But it rebuffed me. Every. Single. Time.

"The scrap yard is the only place for her now," another human commented, "This long in salt water, there's no coming back."

No, no… not like this.

**Emergency ****protocols:**** suspended**

** Stasis lock re-initializing: 3… 2… 1... **

I didn't want to die. Not again.

* * *

**Author's Note: Seems like I found a schedule after all. Lets see how long that lasts. Anyway, next chapter I think is where our two leading characters will come together, and if not that one then definitely the one after it. Reviews are appreciated!**


	5. The Firebird

**Donald**

The sunlight filtering through his window shades illuminated his room slowly. Long before it had chased the shadows to the farthest wall in the room, Donny had been awake but had stayed rooted to his bed. Before the accident he would already be moving through his morning exercise routine, pushing his body until his muscles burned and sweat stained his skin. But for the life of him, Donny could not summon the energy to simply leave his sheets let alone maintain his fitness.

He had been wide awake for several hours now. His mind wandering, his legs stiff and straight, his calves aching from nervous tension as he tried – fruitlessly – to go to sleep. He hadn't gotten a good bit of shuteye for weeks now, sometimes he would be blessed with a merciful seven hours of unconsciousness, but other times he would dream of _the Room_, and he would be wide awake for the rest of the night.

When the alarm clock finally hit eight and lets out it's irritating peals, Donny was still staring at the ceiling. Sighing loudly he reached over and turned it off, silencing the device and letting silence once again overtake his bedroom. He knew he should be getting out of bed and getting ready for work, but his mind was still turning things over. Should he get up, or should he continue trying to sleep? Twenty minutes had passed by before he managed to gather the willpower to start his day.

He sat up slowly, cringing as tingling pain lanced through his abdomen. His hand grasped the epicenter of the discomfort, his palm laying flat against a 'Y' shaped scar, covering an area of skin roughly the size of a playing card. A living reminder of the four foot piece of metal that skewered him through his windshield, of the six inches of small intestine he had lost in surgery, of the one-thousand hours he had spent wasting away in a hospital bed. Not bothering to get dressed yet, he ambled slowly out the bedroom door, through the hall, and into the bathroom on the right.

Donny stared into the mirror and hated the person that stared back. He hated the frail, weak man staring him back with furious intensity. His physique still hadn't recovered from the atrophy caused by his six week coma, it felt like he had completely lost his edge.

It wasn't the lack of sleep and female company, though those had played a part. It wasn't the fact he could no longer take control of his fate by sitting in a race car, instead of wasting away in front of the television, making his eyes and brain ache from watching those pointless sitcoms; It was the revelation of the kind of man he truly was. It was that knowledge, more than anything else that made him wish the weak man in his mirror would just do the world a favor and leave, destroying any trace of the man that remained – if there had ever been a man there in the first place – in the process.

It had been five months since the crash, and almost three since he woke up. Since then he had been mostly keeping company with his friends, though admittedly not as much as he had been before Leguna Seca. Donny wondered if Patrick and Jonathan were disgusted by the man in the mirror, the man who Donny was starting to suspect had been there all along and was only now starting to reveal himself to the world. Was this really all that was left for him?

Holly had visited him a few days after he first regained consciousness, by then his ability to speak had been restored so he chose that time to come clean with her. She had listened to him confess to his faithless actions, her eyes growing colder and lips trembling with suppressed emotion. After he had finished, she walked out of the room and out of his life. Donny had expected nothing less, Holly had far too much self respect to even contemplate continuing the farce out of pity for his circumstances; but he did miss her, and cursed himself for his idiocy every day since then.

Autumn was also giving him the cold shoulder. She had come to his house a few days after he was discharged from the hospital, where he flat out told her he could not in good conscience sleep with her anymore. She had taken that as him blaming her for his own fallout with Holly, and she had not returned his calls since; it seemed he had lost her friendship alongside the benefits.

Now all he had was Patrick and Jonathan. He didn't speak to Patrick anymore outside work, and he hadn't caught up with Jonathan since he checked in on him after he woke up; they were pretty much all he had left of his social life. If they left him too, then he didn't know how he was going to get through this bullshit. Donny gave the pathetic caricature in the mirror another glare before stepping out of the bathroom, into the hall and back to his bedroom.

On the plus side of things, he had managed to somewhat reconnect with his family. His father had payed off the remainder of the payments owed for the now wrecked Mazda, on the proviso that he would never compete in motorsports ever again, and his mother had him write down a signed agreement binding him to that promise. Donny resented them for essentially bringing the axe down on his lifelong dream, but looking back he honestly could not say it wasn't deserved in the end; he had been a terrible son to both of them. And the way he was now, he wasn't sure if he had the courage to go out to the track again – a disappointment and a coward, that's where he was at now.

Slipping into the first thing he found lying on the floor, Donny ruminated on the day ahead of him. Jonathan's birthday was today, he was turning twenty-five and was throwing a party at his family home, Donny had been invited personally over the phone a little more than three weeks ago, Patrick by their shared relationship had also been invited. It would be his first time in a large social gathering since leaving the recovery ward. Donny had been halfway tempted to turn Jonathan down, he didn't really have the energy to deal with people these days, and a party sounded like a surefire way to give him a headache; but he hadn't connected with Jonathan in months, and they had a talk that was long passed due.

* * *

Donny had taken the Sierra into the outskirts northeast of Oakland, where the urban sprawl gave way to open fields, park lands, and forests. It was a two hour drive from his own home, but well worth the trip just to get a glimpse of the place his friend called home.

Jonathan's Nantucket inspired vineyard estate was a sight to see, three floors, five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a pool, a four car garage, and a huge wrap around porch situated on a ten acre property with a tree lined drive leading all the way to the huge house. Several vehicles lined the gravel drive on either side, Donny was forced to park his pickup close to the gate and walk the rest of the way. On the walk to the house, he noted Patrick's trash packed Honda Civic parked in the middle of the line, his other friend was already here. When he approached the end of the drive, he noticed another car standing out. A sleek bright yellow Ferrari Testarossa with an obnoxiously large rear spoiler, and racing decals; Donny could already tell that the owner didn't know the first thing about optimizing a vehicle's performance, that spoiler would only produce drag at high speeds, and all those decals only served to degrade the Ferrari's sleek stock elegance – this car belonged to an asshole, he was calling it right now.

Walking the rest of the distance to the house he made his way up to the massive porch which was now crowded with party guests, Donny kept his eyes open for any sign of Jonathan. He asked around and was pointed to the pool deck at the back of the house.

He found Jonathan by the grill, which he was tending to. By his side was Nicole Cromwell, his fiance. Nicole was a rather pretty woman, she wore a black casual dress, wore her smooth black hair in a bob style, and possessed a rather intense set of brown, almond shaped eyes; he detected a bit of Asian ancestry in her blood.

Jonathan himself looked to be in the top of his game, he wore a loose white collared shirt and black slacks, and his red hair was carefully maintained into it's usual boring side part. He appeared to be enjoying himself, though Donny felt it had more to do with Nicole rather than his party. Lucky bastard.

"Hey Jon!" Donny hailed his friend who looked up from the hamburgers to see a familiar face approaching.

"Don! Glad you could make it, I'll have these ready in a minute now. Did you have any trouble getting here?"

"I managed to sneak through before the commuters took over the streets, are you enjoying the party so far?"

"It's been going good so far," Jonathan answered as he began scooping the cooked patties off the grill with his spatula, "You go on ahead and have fun, we can talk later when I have time."

"You have any beer around here?"

* * *

Jonathan's birthday party was a paradox to say the least. The atmosphere seemed to shift from formal to informal depending on what part of the house you were in and who you were with. One moment you are sipping somewhat expensive champagne with some affluent dicks, and then you walk outside and a bunch of morons are doing kegstands; Donny had little idea of what kind of party goer he was going to be, dick or moron. Donny's birthdays were always short and simple affairs, especially after he moved out of his parents house; say hi to your sisters, say hi to the parents, eat your cake, unwrap your pointless gifts, go home. It was in times like these that he felt jealous for the life his friend lived.

To occupy himself, Donny simply stayed with Patrick, who was now fixated on the buffet table and attempting to fit a little bit of everything onto a flimsy paper plate. Donny had been content with a few lamb chops, and a beer; he had already finished with the former and was still working on the latter. He did try to have fun, really, but his walls did not come down easily and no matter where in the house he went he could not bring himself to join in on the festivities.

_'Perhaps coming here was a bad idea,' _he thought glumly, taking a sip of his beer. There was nobody to talk to because Patrick's face was busy being stuffed, Jonathan was schmoozing his other friends, and he had no connection to anyone else here. He got up from his chair and moved to leave the drawing room, hoping to see if Jonathan was at last free from the distractions of his guests, but as he walked through the door, a smaller body collided with his and a feminine sounding 'oof' registered in his eardrums and he found his gaze turned downwards.

Green eyes, the color of old dollar bills stared back at him, and under them a cute nose was scrunched and a pair of full lips were down turned in embarrassment, all of it framed by shoulder length honey brown curls. Definitely one of the prettier faces he had seen since he walked into this pary. A quick inconspicuous glance shamelessly took in the graceful long legs, and medium sized bust. Donny's inner womanizer was suddenly jolted from hibernation as his lizard brain took his mind into dirty places before he quickly put a pin on it; last thing he needed was to creep her out.

"Sorry about that, are you alright miss..."

"Melissa," she answered awkwardly, "Melissa Witwicky."

It was a strange last name, but that hardly mattered to him right now. "Melissa, I am Donald. Donald Davis, but my friends call me Donny. You know Jon?"

Melissa shook her head, "No, my b- my _friend,_ does; or at least knows his family."

"Nothing new there, Jonny's birthday parties attract all kinds of people. But what about you, are you enjoying yourself?" He asked conversationally. His old playboy skills were reawakening in the presence of this woman who he was barely acquainted with, and Donny embraced their return with gusto, for the moment he was starting to feel normal again.

"I'm fine," she answered unsure of herself, "But I don't know anyone here."

"You do now," Donny smiled, "How about another to mix things up?" He turned to address his would be wingman, Patrick, who was busy finishing up his previously overfilled plate on the couch.

"Hey Patrick, you mind coming over?" He asked with a wide grin. Patrick looked at the last few scraps then back at Donny before sighing and making his way over.

"Melissa Witwicky this is Patrick Whittle. Patrick, Melissa," he introduced them, "Patrick here is my best friend, straight out of college."

"A pleasure to meet you Miss Wickety," Patrick said happily, apparently pleased with Donny's sudden change in demeanor.

"Oh, it's Witwicky," Melissa corrected, "And thanks." Now she was smiling, nobody could stay tense with Patrick around, his gentle countenance and all round pleasant personality made him a wonderful wingman, though he wasn't always aware of the role he played.

"So what do you do for a living Melissa?" Donny inquired.

"Oh, I'm a secretary," she said a little shyly and with a hint of dismay, apparently she didn't think much of her job.

"Both me and Donny are mechanics at Midas," Patrick chimed in cheerfully, "Donny here is also a race car driver."

Color flooded Donny's cheeks, "Not anymore I'm afraid."

Melissa looked curious, but the fact that she had yet to be driven off by these two strange men in front of her was a good sign, he was kind of winging it here.

"What do you mean by-" she began and paused as she looked over Donny's shoulder and her eyes widened, face paling a shade. Donny looked back and saw a man approaching them. The man had strong Eastern European features, with a squared jawline, a clefted chin, hard blue eyes, and slicked back blonde hair. He was also tall, his tight designer clothing also hinted at a physique similar to the one Donny had before his disastrous race. Donny took an immediate disliking to the man.

"Melissa," he addressed her sharply, "I thought I told you not to leave my side. And who are these nobodies you are cavorting with?"

_'__Is this guy for real?' _Donny thought incredulously, previously he thought assholes of this magnitude only existed in the world of fantasy, he never counted on meeting someone so repulsive in real life.

Donny was at a loss for words at the moment as the prick continued his tirade which was now turning towards him, "And you, what gives you the right to badger my girlfriend in such an uncouth manner?"

"Grant, don't-" Melissa began but a glare from Grant made her back down and look away from the two men.

"Slick outfit," Donny shot in with a drawl, "I bet if you stood out on a street corner you could make some money; give your mommy a break for the night."

"Idiot, do you have any idea who I am?" Grant demanded, his eyes drilling into Donny's. _'Oh my God, who the fuck says this shit outside TV?'_

"I feel like you are dying to tell me," Donny replied sarcastically.

"My dad owns the finest bank chain in California," the man replied smugly, "The name's Eric Grant, my dad's Zachary Grant of Grant & Co. I run his San Francisco branch."

"Yeah, that says more about your dad and less about you. Do you have any agency of your own?"

The man glowered at him and Donny smirked, "Thought so."

Donny was turning away before Grant spoke again.

"Oh, I recognize you now. Dominic… David or whatever. You were all the rage a few months back, your exploits are known across the country, though I doubt anyone gives a damn about you anymore. Too bad you slept through being a celebrity, if only for a short time."

He gave a cruel smirk, "Though I must say, I have never seen anybody fly a car much like you did; though looking back I would say it was quite dimwitted of you."

Alright, now he wanted to run this inbred piece of shit over with his truck.

"Your ass must be getting real jealous from all that shit coming out of your mouth," Donny growled. Before the prick could respond, Donny pitched his glass forward, sending several fingers of alcohol through the air to splash right into the crotch of Grant's super-tight jeans. Donny knew it was low, but the gobsmacked look on Grant's face made it all worth it.

"What-? You! HOW DARE YOU!" The prick shouted, his face flushing an alarming shade of puce.

"What's going on in here?" And there, like a gift from God sent upon wings of angels was Jonathan Reeves, looking more than a little bit annoyed as he walked between the growing scene, his fiance waiting in the wings with a concerned look on her face.

"This imbecile has assaulted me!" Grant cried out, "I demand you have him thrown out of here before I call my lawyer!"

"I just said some mean words," Donny defended, "He's the one who pissed himself in fear." Gesturing to Grant's freshly moist and bitter smelling crotch.

Grant roared and struck Donny clear in the solar plexus, causing the weakened man to double over and take several steps back, but to his credit, Donny managed to not spill any more of his beer. Several other party guests moved to place themselves between the two men before more violence could break out.

"Take a hike Grant," Jonathan snapped, "If you can't act like a civilized human being, you have no business being here!"

"I would be careful with your words Jon," Grant stepped forward, emphasizing his own height over Jonathan's shorter stature, but the other man was having none of it and glared right back, "After all, we don't want any disagreements coming between our families, do we?"

"Get out." Jonathan repeated.

Grant sneered, "Fine, this gathering is beneath my standards anyway, come Melissa we're leaving."

Melissa paused and sent Donny an apologetic look before following after Grant, her head hung low with dejection.

"Don, to the study. We need to talk." Jonathan said, turning to him. Jonathan nodded, having gained his second wind but his gut was now sore as hell.

"If you were a girl I would be sweating now," Donny joked lamely as he followed, Jonathan gave a dry laugh though there was no real mirth behind it.

He followed Jonathan away from the festivities and to the study. It was one of the smaller rooms in the house, containing a desk, a narrow six shelf bookcase, a tack board, and one of those big boxy personal computers that seemed to be popping up everywhere these days. Jonathan paced around in front of him, as if considering his next words.

"Look, I'm sorry about taking you away from your party… and your future wife." Donny began awkwardly.

"It's fine, Nicole can entertain the guests for a few minutes. I'm sorry about Grant, my parents invited him here without asking me."

"He's a prick." Donny groused bitterly before taking a drink from his glass. "Don't know what she's seeing in him."

"Certainly not any wits, I can tell you that much," Jonathan grinned, and despite himself Donny was smiling too, though it faded as he recalled Grant's words.

"Don, what's wrong?" Jonathan asked, clearly picking up on his blackening mood.

"You know what Jon? These days I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I've fucked everything up!" His relationship with his parents? Lukewarm. His racing career? Dead and buried. His race car? Gone. Holly? He was dead to her. His friends? Still there, but for how much longer?

"You can't think like that Donny, you're better than that." Jonathan said squarely, "Now look me in the eye and stop feeling sorry for yourself!"

Warily Donny shifted his gaze to meet Jonathan's piercing green stare.

"I've been where you were at before," Jonathan said seriously, "It feels like nothing matters anymore, and everything you do just goes to shit."

"Sounds familiar," Donny replied without humor and breaking eye contact to contemplate the alcohol settling in his glass.

"It was after my uncle was killed." That snapped Donny right out of his stupor as he quickly returned his gaze back to Jonathan.

"It was two years before we met," his friend continued somberly, "My uncle and I… we went way back, he was the one who first introduced me to cars as a hobby, he had been one of those greaser types back in the day, had the leather jacket and the stupid hair with all the trimmings. It had been raining one night and he went out for a drive in the old '65 Mustang he always showed off, and he never came back."

Donny shifted his attention worriedly to Jonathan, whose face was void of expression, "They found the car at the bottom of a hillside road… uncle Cal was already long gone when they found him. It hit my dad pretty hard, they were real tight growing up; but as for me, well I was feeling a little bit like you are right now."

Donny had no words, he had never seen this side to Jonathan in the years they had known one another. Slowly Donny set his drink on the desk, pushing it out of his mind to focus more on his friend.

"I helped him work on that old pony a few days before he took it out, and to this day I still wonder if it had been something _I _had done that caused Cal to die. And I probably wouldn't have gotten through it if it hadn't been for the Urraco."

Now Donny was confused, "The Lamborghini? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything," Jonathan replied, completely serious, "My uncle bought it a week before the accident at a junkyard, he was planning on restoring it and having me help him out. He never was able to have it towed out from the yard, so the owner called up my father and I overheard it. My folks wanted nothing to do with the car, but I managed to convince them to let me take a shot at it.

"I worked on the Urraco every spare day I had, I ordered replacement parts from all over the States, busted fingers on both my hands winching out the engine block out of the back one time, and got all kinds of cuts and scrapes along the way, and when it was finished not only did the car look awesome but _I_ felt awesome." He grinned, his eyes bright with mirth at the memories playing out in his mind. "It made me feel in control again, it helped me convince myself – halfway at least – that what happened to Cal wasn't my fault."

"That's all it took?" Donny asked suspiciously.

"Talking about it also helped," Jonathan admitted, "Have you been talking to Patrick? To your family?"

"I talk to Patrick plenty of times, and I am also seeing my family." Donny answered, his posture becoming a little defensive.

"Your parents made you give up racing," he pointed out, "You aren't mad at them for doing that?"

"I didn't say I wasn't mad," Donny said lowly, his eyes falling to the floor, "They twisted my arm while I was in bed and unable to speak full sentences! But I – I deserved it didn't I? You saw how I was treating them at the track."

"They made it worse for you," Jonathan observed, "That's not how family is supposed to treat each other Donny; two wrongs do not make a right. I think you also need to clear this up with your folks."

Donny nodded noncommittally, "Right."

Jonathan squeezed his shoulder firmly, "If you need help, give me a call."

"That place you mentioned, the junkyard. Do you have the address?"

Jonathan paused, considering for a moment, before taking a napkin from a nearby table and his ballpoint pen from his pocket, he scribbled the address down and handed the napkin to Donny who quickly pocketed it. "Thanks, but I think I should get out of here."

"A pleasure, but are you sure you aren't staying?"

"Nah, I feel like I'll be a drag on the party, and I still need to drive myself home before I get too hammered off your fancy booze."

Jonathan chuckled, "Just take care of yourself."

Donny managed a small smile before walking away, heading back outside into the warm evening air. He had done what he came here to do, set things straight with Jonathan and also got some advice he had half a mind to follow up on. As he came up to the porch railing next to the stairs leading down to the drive, he took notice of Grant and Melissa next to the overdone Ferrari, him gesturing insistently to the vehicle and her with an angry look on her face. Definitely not a match made in heaven. They both got in and Donny was reminded of his earlier thoughts on the vehicle.

_'Totally called it.'_

* * *

For the rest of the week, time moved slowly for Donny. His memories of the party melted into a blur with few distinct details; Jonathan's story, Melissa, that prick Grant, and directions to a certain junkyard where his friend had found the catalyst to resolve his own depression. In spite of the ambivalence to the idea he had displayed at the party, it had stuck with him consistently, coming back to mind in his off hours until it was all he could think of at times.

Donny wanted something to do, something constructive to spend his time on that was all for him and him alone. He had some money to spend, and since he no longer had to shell out entry fees for his monthly racing he suddenly had a lot more disposable income; he could make it work. But he was still hesitant.

Would this really help him get his life back on track? Something told him that it wouldn't be that easy, not by a long shot. But thinking his way out of depression wasn't exactly working out for him lately, and if he didn't find a way to be rid of it his life was at risk of becoming unlivable.

"I think you should go for it," Patrick replied with a smile, "It's not like racing, but you'll never know what it's like until you give it a go!"

"What, I should just go over there and pick up a pile of scrap? I don't even know if they have something worth taking," Donny returned with a skeptical tone.

"Then give em a call, did Jon give you a number?" Patrick pressed on as he reached into the raised undercarriage of the Ford station wagon they were working on.

"Nope," was the simple answer as Donny began his own work at the opposite end of the car.

"Then check the yellow pages, I'm sure they have a few good ones lined up. If Jonny got a Lambo off them, whose to say you won't do one better?"

He was about to reply when a thick gobbet of sludge dripped from the rear axel and onto his company shirt, defacing the Midas logo on the front. He cursed to himself and searched around for a cleaning rag, his eyes scanning around the service shop.

Midas, what could he say about working for Midas? It wasn't Donny's dream job, that was for certain. But he had learned a lot working here, things that the auto shop at Berkeley didn't exactly cover in detail. His co-workers were a friendly bunch, especially Patrick. But the place suffered from poor management, Julius Sawyer – his boss – was more dramatic than a schoolgirl, and had a tendency to gossip about problems rather than take the initiative and solve them; he was a good man, but a bad boss. But all that had mattered little to Donny, it had been a way to make money to pay his way into the racing scene; now that, that door was closed for good, he was left a little uncertain of why he was still working here.

"Here," Patrick said, handing him a rag which Donny gratefully accepted, rubbing out his shirt.

"I'll think about it, I admit it sounds like it could be fun." Donny admitted.

"Call them when you get home, and we can both go tomorrow," Patrick said with a grin.

Donny frowned, "Why do you want to come?"

"Just want to look around is all," Patrick said simply. Donny did not buy it, Patrick was well known for his compulsive buying and hoarding, a habit that has transformed his home into one giant fire hazard. As much as Donny did not want to help feed into that habit, he could really use Patrick's help if he did go.

"Suit yourself," was his reply before turning back to the car suspended over them.

* * *

The Sierra rolled down route 101 at a steady pace, it's sturdy engine humming powerfully as it hauled the empty trailer and it's two passengers onward to their destination. The last time Donny had been down this road, he had been on his way to Leguna Seca and his eventual downfall. No small amount of anxiety knotted his stomach, his scar was tingling in sympathy as his thoughts took a dark turn to his experiences while comatose.

"Hey Don, penny for your thoughts?" Patrick suddenly spoke up, as the pickup started to go downhill. Donny was jolted out of his own thoughts and the Sierra swerved slightly in the lane before he straightened back up.

"I was thinking about the race," he replied, seeing no reason to lie to Patrick.

"That wasn't your fault Donny," Patrick said carefully, "That other guy stopped on the track, it was all bad luck."

"Hrm..." Donny grunted, his eyes fixed on the road. "Doesn't matter anymore, none of it does."

Patrick was silent for a moment before he attempted to put the conversation on a new tangent, "Did you ever get Melissa's number?"

Melissa? Oh yeah, that girl he blew it with at Jonathan's party, the one with the massive ricer prick for a boyfriend. He had almost forgotten about her, he faintly remembered some outlandish ideas to seduce her away from Grant the night he came back from the party, but never acted on any of them. He had stopped caring about it after he woke up the next day.

"No."

Patrick looked visibly frustrated, "What do you mean no? I saw how you were with her, it was like you were _you_ again! Are you just gonna let that go?"

"It was nothing," Donny rebuffed, "Nothing I ever want to be again." He knew very well what kind of man he was now, he had no regard for Melissa as a human being, in that moment he had been the same person who kept Holly waiting for all these years while cheating behind her back. As big of an asshole Grant was, Donny was little better; she'd be better off without either of them.

Noting the crestfallen look on Patrick's face Donny felt a fresh wave of guilt; even when he was trying to reconnect with them, he still found ways to wound the people closest to him. He then took notice of a sign he was looking for.

"Here's our turn," Donny announced, gratefully cutting the steering wheel to the right, getting off the highway and onto a rough dirt road that caused the decade old GMC truck to bounce around on it's suspension, it brought a smile to his face despite his earlier mood, he loved taking dirt roads.

Donny let off the gas and idled the Sierra lazily into what had once been a fairly large farming estate. All Donny and Patrick could see was an old house connected to a large sheet metal garage, a rundown barn and a pair of silos, and a seemingly endless amount of derelict cars, arrayed like tombstones as far as the could see. A large wooden sign next to the entrance read: "Littlehorn & Sons, Auto & Salvage" Donny put his eyes back on the road as he searched for a place to park.

"Looks like this is the place," Patrick remarked, stepping out of the pickup. They weren't the only ones here, Donny could see a slew of other customers prowling around the automobile graveyard with wagons laden with salvage.

"Let's go get checked in," Donny said flatly, starting off towards the farm house while shielding his eyes from dust clouds carried up by the winds sweeping through the packed dirt parking lot. Unfortunately some of it did get in his mouth, and he swore he felt rust grains on his tongue as he spat it out.

The farm house seemed to be the only part of the original estate that was being kept in good maintenance, though it was still rough around the edges. It was two stories tall and had dark wood shingled walls and dirty windows, another business sign was hanging off the porch railing, and he spotted a man sitting in a wicker chair next to the front door. He was an older man, somewhere north of fifty and appeared to be rather short and portly, he looked the part of a Texan rancher, with the plaid shirt, well worn jeans cinched to his waist by a thick leather belt with a buckle, and a white cowboy hat sitting on his brow.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where Mr. Littlehorn is?" Donny asked.

"You're speaking to him," the man – Wilson Littlehorn – replied as he raised himself out of his chair, coming up about a head shorter than Donny. "What can I do for you?"

"I called you yesterday, about buying a car here. The '67 Charger?"

Mr. Littlehorn cracked a grin, "Ah ha! Mr. Davis, yes now I remember! The Charger is waiting for your review in row sixteen over yonder," he gestured down the path off to the side of the house where numbered signs were erected on short posts next to each row of junked cars, "Now I should warn you son, that Charger has seen better days but a little elbow grease on your part will bring the life right out of her."

Looking back at Patrick who simply shrugged, both friends left the farmhouse and walked down the path to row sixteen.

"He seemed a bit insincere," Patrick commented as they went down the rows before coming upon a crude yellow sign marked '16' with broad black brush strokes. Turning down the row they passed by a procession of cars in various states of disrepair and dismantlement, when they found the Charger, Donny quickly wished they hadn't.

The 1967 Dodge Charger was sitting on flat rimless tires, it's headlamps concealed behind their distinctive shutters and it's front windshield was completely missing. But according to Wilson it had all it's engine parts in one place and nothing critical had been removed from the vehicle. Donny took in the car with a wary eye, it's coat once likely a sleek glossy black, was no completely faded through to a worn out flat gray. It's oversized right sail panel had a large gouge down it's length from the roof to the quarter panel, as if some maniac had taken an axe to it. The interior was completely trashed, the front driver and passenger side seats were stripped of their coverings down to their teared up yellowed foam cushions, and the rear seats were missing altogether, strips of fabric were hanging down from the cab's ceiling and leaves were scattered everywhere. Wasps were congregating in the back, there must be a nest over there somewhere.

"So much for one-upping Jon's Lambo," Donny said acidly, looking over the hideous interior with visible disgust. There was no way in hell he was taking this thing anywhere near his home.

"It's a fixer upper Donny," Patrick chided, walking over to the junked vehicle, "We haven't even looked at the engine yet! Now let's see, there should be a lever somewhere… ah! Here we go!" Patrick popped the catch on the bonnet and flipped the rusted lid open. Almost immediately, three fat brown rats scurried out of the engine compartment and tumbled into the grass by Patrick's feet, startling the man and causing him to back away in fright.

The sunlight was now shining down upon the opened compartment, which was almost completely filled with dirt, dried out leaves and grass, among other pieces of debris. He could spot the mouths of little tunnels in the heap, and he swore he spotted beady little eyes and the tips of whiskers shaking in a few of them.

"That's not right!" Patrick cried out, looking pissed off, "They baited you Donny!"

Donny could have told him that much the moment he laid eyes on the Dodge, he was fairly certain Mr. Littlehorn had a few other cars – more expensive ones – that were in better condition that he would point them towards.

"Forget it, I'll look around for something else, you go find whatever you want and we'll meet back at the house, okay?"

"Right, right," Patrick nodded, "Just be careful around here, just because some of them look good on the outside doesn't mean they aren't a mess on the inside."

"I know, catch you later," Donny muttered irritably, he regretted being so short with Patrick but it had been a long drive and Wilson's bullshit wasn't doing anything to improve his mood. As Patrick turned around to peruse the salvaged parts section of the lot, Donny continued onward into the graveyard.

Walking through the junkyard, nothing seemed to catch Donny's eye as far as a potential restoration project was concerned. He noted the make and model of each car to cross his eye, making educated guesses to their production years. Only a few of the junked up cars managed to hold his attention for more than a few passing moments. A '57 Chevy Bel Air piqued his interest, it was set up on blocks and despite it's shabby countenance, it still exuded the stylish 50s flare and excess that modern cars simply didn't have anymore. Curiously he placed a hand on the fender, only for it to fall off, the other fender to fall off, and the bumper nearly smashing his feet when it too joined in on the fun. _'Not paying for it!' _Donny shouted mentally as he retreated from the Chevy, hoping nobody had seen that.

Donny wandered further into the field of disused hulks, and his heart sank a little further with every rusted corpse he passed. None of these vehicles, not even the 1960 Plymouth Fury missing it's hood, was in fit enough condition for him to bring back to life. He passed by a stack of rusted bodies, a dilapidated 1950s Chrysler Imperial was leaning precariously on top, as if set to roll off and crush anyone unlucky enough to be near it, Donny gave that one a wide berth. After passing by the leaning tower of Chrysler, Donny turned a corner and felt a chill run down his spine. He felt like he was being watched. He halted right in his tracks as an unnatural silence descended upon the junkyard, he could no longer hear the grasshoppers or the birds, only the hot dry wind gusting gently at his back. Donny, as if by a sudden premonition, turned slowly in place to find… a Pontiac Firebird, baking in the afternoon sun.

A trickle of cold sweat ran down his brow as he approached the muscle car with wary steps until he could get a proper look at it. Like many other cars, rust was encroaching across it's entire body, and all four tires were flat and it appeared that it's suspension had given out, making it look tired and defeated. Other than that though, all of it's parts seemed to be there and the body damage appeared minimal. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him, those square quad lamps seemed to be staring into his soul.

By and large the Pontiac didn't look too bad, the rust looked like it could be sanded off. It looked like it had been a flashy crimson red at one time, but with the cracking the fading and dust taking root in the ruined coat, he couldn't precisely tell the original shade. On it's hood the iconic Firebird emblem was proudly stretching it's stylized wings beneath the raised hood scoop, Trans-Am markings were also present over the left side headlamps and on both fenders. Both man and machine seemed to stare one another down before Donny overcame his inexplicable unease and he crossed the rest of the distance.

A growing feeling of familiarity and nostalgia filled Donny to the brim as he came to a stop in front of the Firebird's square jawed bumper. He knew this car well.

In 1969, Pontiac unveiled a new line of vehicles which would set a trend that would last into the early eighties. The Firebird Trans-Am was a limited run of a very badass muscle car, only a few hundred ever rolled off the factory floor, and today they were prized collectors items. The Trans-Am trend continued with every model year from then afterwards. But it's greatest success to date came in the production year of 1977, when the latest Firebird Trans-Am featured in the highly successful film Smokey and the Bandit.

That movie had been Donny's first introduction to the Firebirds, and as a teenager just starting to get really interested in motorsports, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In 1977, you either had this car, or you didn't; that was how popular it was. And now it was in front of him.

In spite of it's decrepit state, this Firebird seemed even more spectacular than the one he had seen on the silver screen. It was like there was an otherworldly pull to it, like there was something beyond the ordinary to this rusted out derelict. Slowly he leaned over the vehicle, his hand reaching out to touch the hood. As his palm caressed the pitted and cracked paint set over the rust pocked body, something within him compelled him to address the ruined muscle car.

"Hey there." He greeted the Firebird, feeling slightly foolish, "Haven't seen a girl like you in a while." His fingertips glided over the hood as he walked around the left fender to get a look at the rest of his prospective rescuee. The Rims were mostly original, save for the center caps, which instead of bearing the Firebird emblem were instead marked by a strange blank-faced mask symbol with imperious triangular eye slits and a horned crown being it's key defining features. Donny slid his fingers into the cracked chrome handle of the drivers side door and pulled it open. The black leather interior was filthy, but appeared to be mostly salvageable. His eyes drifted over to the steering wheel, and he frowned as he took in the now familiar shape of that mask symbol printed onto the horn cap. Donny was a purist when it came to special edition classics, and these strange customizations detracted from the vehicle's authenticity; what was the meaning of that symbol? It must be some kind of club the previous owner had been a part of.

Brushing off a thin layer of grit and grime from the drivers seat, Donny entered the cab and settled into the cushion, it was still quite comfortable. The windows, including the ones installed into the T-top were nearly opaque with dust and dirt, so not much sunlight was coming in save through the door he had left ajar; it was also blisteringly hot, the darkened cab felt like an oven. Donny reached across to the passenger side and pushed open the other door to let in some more air. As he did so, he heard a metallic rattle followed by a loud clink come from the glove box right next to him. Wary of being jumped by a snake or a rodent hiding in there, but also very curious Donny lifted the latch to the glove box and pulled the lid down. Within the box was a key.

Fishing it out Donny righted himself back up and took a closer look. The key was polished silver in color, with faint bluish circuitry patterns printed all over it's surface. The key's head was shaped – surprise, surprise – in the form of that edgy mask symbol. Donny idly wondered if there were other parts of the car that had been marked with it. The key was surprisingly heavy in his palm however, it felt close to a full pound; incredible for something so small. Additionally unlike the rest of the car it was cold to the touch, like the laws of thermodynamics didn't apply to it.

Donny eyed the ignition socket located in the steering column and after a moment's hesitation, slid the abnormally weighty key into the slot and gave it a turn. He heard the engine stir under the hood briefly, before the Firebird suddenly bounced up energetically, causing Donny to shout out in surprise. Taking stock of the situation, he noticed the dash lights had turned on, the radio had turned on, and the car was now noticeably higher off the ground.

Thespeakers warbled and screeched an indecipherable din, that sounded like a fax machine was having a love affair with a songbird and a whale – at the same time.

Donny twisted the key back into the off position and pulled it out of the ignition, the harshly alien din was cut off alongside the power. He then stepped out of the vehicle. His eyes widened when he beheld the cause behind the Firebird's spontaneous jump. All four tires were now fully pressurized, and it's suspension had been heightened significantly – endowing the Pontiac with a very attractive stance.

"The hell?" Donny said to himself, warily eyeing the vehicle. Few words came to mind for what he was seeing besides 'impossible' and 'freaky', he had never seen anything like that before. Explanations like 'compressed air' and 'magic' also flitted through him mind before he discarded them, self filling tires and auto adjusting suspension had not been invented to his knowledge, and there was no such thing as magic. He walked over to the front of the Firebird and reached for the hood latch in the bumper, popping it open with a quick tug. Lifting the bonnet, he beheld the engine.

The Firebird's six-point-six liter V8 looked damn near pristine compared to the rest of the car. Hardly any speck of rust was to be found inside the engine compartment, though there was plenty of dust. While an awesome looking car, the 1977 Trans-Am lagged behind other muscle cars in performance, even in it's prime it wouldn't have any business being on the same road as his late Mazda. But still, with a little bit of TLC, Donny could see himself getting this old girl back on her feet in no time. Making sure no one else had seen what was under the hood, he slammed it shut.

Donny left the Firebird and made his way back to the old farm house to find Wilson Littlehorn at his desk flipping through paperwork with a sour look on his weathered face. He looked up at Donny's approach.

"You're back, did you like the Charger?" He asked, setting a stack of papers down and folding his hands upon the peeling desk.

"I'm not interested in the Charger, I want to talk about that Firebird at the back of the lot, the red Trans-Am."

A frown overcame Wilson's features as he took in Donny's words, "Hmm… I see, it hasn't caused you any trouble has it?"

"No, but I want to know more about it, where it was found, what is it's story?"

Wilson stared at him suspiciously before giving out a sigh and responding.

"It came in three months ago," Wilson stated, "It was fished out of the Bay at the Oyster Point Marina and brought here at bargain price. It's been sitting out there all summer, completely untouched."

That car had come from the Bay? That explained the rust, but still the Firebird was in remarkably good condition after spending who knew how long immersed in salt water and then being left out to bake in the Summer sun; but it's engine should have been a complete wreck after that little stint, and yet he heard it sing a few tunes before stalling out.

"Hrm," Mr. Littlehorn grunted, "I never had high hopes for that washed up muscle car, really, and the Bandit Firebirds aren't as popular as they used to be. Tell you what, if you can trailer it out of here by yourself it's yours for three-hundred."

"You seem a bit eager to be rid of it, is there something wrong?" Donny asked, wondering if there had been a dead body or something stuffed in the trunk when it was found. Little details like that tended to drop the price.

"There have been accidents," Wilson answered reluctantly, "When we first brought it here, one of my boys was shocked pretty badly when he tried to pop the hood, enough to leave a scar; and last month a customer was set on fire when he tried to take off the rims, still have no idea how that happened, but his lawyers are still giving us trouble. A week ago I decided to hell with this bitch and had it loaded into the crusher, and now the crusher is more wrecked than any car on this lot. If you can take this curse far away from here, you will be doing me a favor. Either way, it's no skin off my back, when the crusher is fixed tomorrow that car is the first thing going in."

"That won't be necessary. I'll take it," Donny found himself saying. He hadn't even done a thorough examination of the vehicle yet, and here he was already committed to buying it. Sure the price was a steal, but it was still not like him, he had given the Mazda a thrice over before even considering his purchase, and this Pontiac was at a glance the complete opposite of roadworthy. Then again, he wasn't here to buy a top of the line roadster, he knew he would be taking home a pile of junk before he had even begun his trip here. Plus it was a _'77 Trans-Am_, it was an enduring symbol of his childhood; he wasn't going to let the chance to own one slip through his fingers. Besides, there was more to that car than what meets the eye, and it didn't feel right to leave it here to be destroyed.

In a flash Donny had his checkbook out, and with a few strokes of a pen his life from hereon after was irrevocably changed.

Half an hour later, the Firebird was dragged out to the entrance. It took Donny, two other men and a winch to push it on to his car hauler and tie it down securely. Patrick had stashed his obligatory hoard fodder – what appeared to be some mufflers and a stereo system – into the flatbed. With everything now in order, Donny now sat in the Sierra's cab, completely stoked for the first time in months. Already, plans for the Pontiac's complete restoration were running rampant through his mind. But when he looked back through the cab's rear window, all thoughts fled him when he saw those headlamps staring back at him.

He suddenly felt very, very small.

* * *

**Author's Note: Longest chapter yet! And it's PURE Donny! I'm trying to expose his point of view as much as possible before Shatter wakes up from stasis. I tried to flesh out the supporting characters as much as possible, but I am still kind of rusty when getting my characters to interact realistically with each other. Anyways, reviews are – as always – most welcome!**


	6. Interlude: The New Order

**The Lord Protector**

Cybertron; the world of wonders, and cradle of the greatest and most terrible race to ever grace the stars. It's immense size, comparable to that of a low-mass main sequence star, made it an incredible sight to behold, one that mortal eyes lacked the privilege of ever seeing; for Cybertron belonged only to it's children, and had no place for anything not made sacred by Primus. Yet in this age, it's timeless glory, once standing immortal before the passage of countless eons, was slowly but surely becoming undone.

Before the war began,viewing the crown jewel of his people's empire from space had always brought a sense of calm to his processor; now all he could feel was a smoldering sense of anger as he beheld the devastation wrought by conflict that had lasted thousands upon thousands of vorns. This was not the Cybertron he had set out to forge so many eons ago, this was not the legacy he had wanted to leave for his Decepticons. There wasn't a single part of the planet that wasn't war ravaged to some degree, in the most extreme cases the ruination could be seen from orbit in the form of vast fissures in the metallic crust, glowing a dull gold, as if the very heart of the planet had been lain bare.

The observation tower was positioned towards the aft of the _Nemesis' _dorsal hull, it was a huge open chamber, seemingly out of place on a ship of war. But like most modern warships, the _Nemesis_ was capable of retracting elements of it's superstructure into subspace, including this tower – which could be replaced for an additional battery of heavy shock cannons. But when not in battle, it served as his court; and as such it was decorated to suit such a role. Great black banners bearing the Decepticon insignia hung from every support strut, a great throne was placed at the raised forward section, forged entirely from the guns and blades of opponents that he himself had vanquished in personal combat.

He cursed the ones who had stolen what Cybertron should have been. Sentinel Prime, the Autobots, Orion Pax. Sentinel was long dead, he had seen to his demise personally; the Autobot rebels were scattered among the stars, regrouping and recovering, preparing to spread their disunity and destruction even further upon the Cybertronian people; Orion Pax, greatest of traitors, the False Prime, and inheritor of Sentinel's twisted legacy, had escaped justice at Iacon.

He remembered leading his warriors as they stormed the Decagon, his fusion cannon running hot as he annihilated one Autobot after another, all seven senses alive with the fury of battle.

* * *

**_The reunification of Cybertron, six quartexes ago_**

_The skies over Iacon were aflame with the rage of war. The Decagon loomed over the once proud city like a great stone pillar standing out amidst a stormy se__a, still standing strong where everything else had fallen to the advance of the Decepticon legions. The batteries that had not been deactivated and whose crew were still online and standing their ground were letting loose with all they had upon the invading transports. __A few unlucky crafts were victims of lucky hits, and were sent crashing to the ground trailing fire and debris, but most of the shots missed. The defenses of the great Autobot fortress depended too much on the volume of fire it could deploy at its full capacity, and the automated systems guided by the Teletraan I artificial intelligence, which had been sabotaged by spies prior to the assault, and without it the panoply of defenses sat inactive or too cumbersome to bring to bear on the invaders. Add to that the loss of contact with the Capital Sector and __the orbital platforms, and the Decagon along with all of Iacon was laid bare against the Decepticon assault._

_ Megatron and the rest of his commanders could pick up the desperate reports from all over the city. The soldiers who steadfastly remained loyal to the False Prime were still fighting, a futile gesture that was doomed to end in their destruction. Megatron spared no pity for them. They had the chance to fight for the glorious future he had promised, and sided with the true heroes of Cybertron, yet they had foolishly clung to the worthless rationales __and platitudes of Optimus Prime that had spread among them like a virus. They deserved the violent end that awaited them and all other traitors._

* * *

_T__he__ towering immensity that was Trypticon bellowed a ferocious warcry that shook the very air and walls of the fortress around him, in front of the mighty titan stood an equal in every measure save for it's allegiance; Metroplex surged forward on building sized pedes, his blazing optics fixed upon the roughly saurian shaped monstrosity that threatened his smaller comrades._

_Beneath the clashing titans, warriors loyal to the Lord Protector diverted their path of advance around the incredible duel that would doubtlessly be told in poem and song for countless eons to come – but only if Trypticon won, Megatron did not commemorate failure – and were now probing the lines of defenses encircling the trapezoidal citadel that rose from the heart of the Decagon's mesa __shaped__mega__structure. __Megatron advanced from the front, searing red beams projected by his fusion cannon tore through the frames of any Autobot with the misfortune to stand before his optics._

_ Their journey through the streets leading up to the Citadel had not been an easy one. The roads jinked left to right at sharp angles, forcing them to fight for every step forward from killzone to killzone. __Megatron's silver armor was caked in ash and partially crystalized Autobot life-en, only through the assistance of Starscream's seeker cohorts were the assault forces able to advance safely as the elite fliers picked off heavy weapons teams lying in wait behind the blind corners._

_They had breached the front lines at the pavilion of the now defunct High Council, the very place where Megatron had denounced the incompetence of Sentinel Prime and demanded the ancient mech step down for the good of Cybertron's people, this was where the war had truly began. Where the weak and corrupt forced the servos of the strong and the righteous. __And it would be where at long last he would proclaim the victory of the new order upon the corpse of the old._

_The Autobots were putting up a stern resistance, the kill counter in his peripheral vision had already ticked up to fifty by the time the pavillion was finally clear of hostiles, but here was still no sign of his true quarry._

"Lord Megatron. Optimus Prime: located. Holding position at central command tower," _Soundwave's voice broke through the command channel, causing Megatron's spark to pulse with excitement._

_ "Excellent! Press the attack Soundwave! Starscream, do not let them escape!"_

"Affirmitive. **Decepticons: attack!**"

_Megatron had immediately ditched his contingent, only taking a small force to link up with Soundwave's position. __The path to the command tower was not completely clear of Autobots, and several of his guards were offlined in their haste to reach the heart of the Decagon before Optimus Prime could use it's escape pods to flee Cybertron. __In his hover tank alt-mode, Megatron's afterburners were in full overdrive as he rushed towards the tower, now visible before him._

"Megatron. Escape pods are launching." _Soundwave informed him. The optical sensors of Megatron's alt-form zeroed in on the tails of fire rocketing up __from the top of the tower's launch pad and__ into the smoke choked skies __above__. No, not like this! Not when he was so close!_

_ "Starscream, where in the Pit are you?!" _

"I am making my attack now! Prime is still here!" _Starscream assured. From his position, Megatron could see Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker along with another trine fly up over the top of the tower, coming out of their alt-modes to hover over the launch pad. Streams of missiles were fired by the Seekers, streaking down under the pad and into the narrowest section of the tower, causing the structure to collapse in on itself. He spotted one last escape pod blast off from the falling tower._

"This is Ramjet, get this Prime off me!" _a shrill voice screamed through the comms. Sure enough, there was Optimus Prime, riding the spinning seeker down to the latter's doom. __To Megatron's satisfaction, they went down not too far from his position._

"Decepticons: surround Optimus Prime."

_Megatron's alt-mode cleared a jump into the open plaza that the now ruined tower once stood in the center of. __From here to scale of the Decagon's ruination was made clear, nearly all of it's fortress districts were in shambles, and energon fueled fires were overtaking the northwestern part of the complex.__He quickly sighted Soundwave who was now advancing on Optimus Prime, neutron blaster in hand alongside Onslaught and his Combaticons, and two triple-changers._

_ "__Ravage: eject!" Soundwave intoned quickly, his cassette deck flipping open to release the infamous modified cybercat, "Operation: disarm__ament__!"_

_Optimus Prime raised his neutron assault rifle to take aim at the beast formed warrior, who nimbly dodged out of the line of fire and pounced onto the Prime, his powerful jaws clamping down on the mech's servo articulators and bringing Optimus down under the momentum of the attack. __The weapon tumbled from the Prime's grip, but in the end a cassette even of Ravage's caliber could not hope to immobilize a living Prime for long. A backhanded blow from Optimus sent the quadrupedal assailant flying back to his guardian who came up to stand beside him._

_Megatron shifted out of his alt-form in a roll as he came to stand next to Soundwave. __For a split moment, both Autobot and Decepticon leaders locked gazes with one another before Megatron gave the order._

_ "Seize him!"_

_The Decepticons rushed in, converging on the Prime from all directions. But just as Optimus was about to be dogpiled, an audio shattering warhorn split the air, followed by a massive shadow that blanketed the entire plaza._

_ Metroplex, war beaten and __covered in the ashes of Iacon's skyscrapers,__ landed on a trail of fire at the base of the ruined tower. __His three-point landing made the ground quake beneath Megatron's pedes.__H__is giant hand reach__ed__ out towards the __isolated__ Prime._

**_ "__Begone, Decepticon invaders!" _**_The titan boomed, _**_"You shall not harm the Last Prime!"_**

_"__Combaticons combine __and distract__! Decepticons, __fall back and__ find cover! Trypticon, assist me!" Megatron snapped his orders through the comm. __The soldiers scurried to get out of the way of the incoming servo, a few shock troopers were crushed under Metroplex's digits as they scraped forward to curl around Optimus Prime. __The Combaticons quickly combined into Bruticus, the giant mech was still dwarfed by the cityformer, but did not seem fazed by the fact. _

_The Combiner gave an incoherent roar and rocket jumped straight towards Metroplex's helm, firing his weapon systems into the colossal mech's faceplate as he crossed the distance. __Temporarily blindsided by the fusillade, Metroplex managed to interpose his other servo between Bruticus and his helm, the combiner latched onto the titan's bracer armor and began to scurry along the limb towards the massive mech's shoulder, appearing humorously like a little sparkling harassing a full grown Cybertronian. To __Megatron's amazement, Bruticus was actually managing to stall the far larger mech, they only needed to do so a little longer. Trypticon was closing in._

_Bruticus wasn't really doing much to damage the titan, but he was irritating Metroplex something awful. What the Combaticons combined form lacked in intellect, he more than made up for in his audacity. __That wasn't to say the rest of the Decepticons weren't doing anything. The triple-changer duo had transformed into their flying alt-forms, a __red__spacefighter__ and a __blue__ rotorcraft to join the Seekers present in an aerial attack, while Shockwave and Soundwave helped coordinate the forces present to hem in the titan as best they could. _

_In the end, Metroplex was unable to deal with Bruticus effectively while he held Optimus in one hand. __He was firing his torso mounted weapons at the dispersed Decepticon __ground__ forces blindly, __incurring minimal casualties, but Megatron doubted that would last long, if that titan got it back together they would have no choice but to retreat. __Metroplex, clearly realizing this, lowered the servo carrying the Prime to the ground behind him. Megatron spotted Optimus' distinctive red and white truck alternate mode drive off the servo and towards the open gap in the encirclement behind the titan. He was getting away!_

_Heedless of the danger, Megatron changed into his armored skimmer form, gunning his afterburners to quickly cut through the plaza. Metroplex, his servo now clear, reached over to his opposite shoulder, managing to get hold of Bruticus but not before the combiner had savaged the right side of his helm. Bruticus was hurled across the battlefield, his frame tumbling across the plaza and over Megatron as he sped forward with all haste, eager to overtake his nemesis._

_Trypticon chose that moment to make his appearance. _

_The titan rolled into the battlefield in his vehicular mode, an immense slab of armored plates covered in guns and driven by treads. It was one of four modes that the titan possessed, and it was bearing straight down upon Metroplex. __Trypticon changed into it's saurian form just as he was about to ram into his counterpart. Both titans clashed, their warhorns roaring in unison as their fighting raged anew. __Megatron disregarded them, turning his focus on the tail of the retreating Prime._

_Megatron pushed his alt-form as hard as he could, fixated on catching up with Prime's own fleeing vehicle mode. __As soon as he came into weapons range, Megatron opened up with his shock cannon, the rocket propelled munition __streaked towards the moving target detonation next to transformed Autobot as he turned down a ramp. __Rather than take the ramp himself, Megatron simply drove off the edge next to it, allowing the anti-gravity repulsor plates fixed in the belly of his alt-form to nullify the impact of landing. __Just ahead of him, Optimus was coming off the ramp. _

_Megatron's alt-form t-boned Optimus at maximum speed, __the heavier vehicle mode toppled the truck form, causing the Prime to roll over another ledge, Megatron and reverted to his base form and clung to Optimus who was just now doing the same. Both warriors slammed down onto the roof of a building, Megatron rolled into a recovery while Optimus settled into an ungainly sprawl. The building they were now on overlooked an open plaza a tier below, which Metroplex and Trypticon were using as their chosen battleground. _

_Optimus regained his footing with a __warrior's__ grace that was as far from __a__ library dwelling __cur, as Cybertron was from the edge of the Universe, his ice blue optics were fixed unwaveringly upon Megatron's own, their depths blazing with a righteous intensity that could only be kindled within those who bore the Matrix of Leadership. The Lord Protector felt his facial plates twist in disgust as he sized up the mech that had thwarted his designs time and time again throughout the eons._

_ "__You're rebellion is finished, Orion!" Megatron boomed, "You're Autobots are scattered and broken, surrender the Matrix to me and you may keep your life!"_

_The Prime said nothing, a hilt dropped into the mech's right servo from subspace and immediately folded out into a golden single-edged axe, an instantly later the head of the weapon was encased in a fiery energy field as it's wielder dropped into a ready stance. Megatron in response brought out a weapon of his own, a massive double-edged sword that pulsed with a purple aura of destructive potential. The two regarded one another for a single moment before moving at the same time._

_Megatron and Optimus quickly closed the distance between each other, __weapons__ raised for the incoming clash. In spite of his peaceful origins, Optimus was superbly skilled and unpredictable in his approach to combat. Reaching striking distance, Megatron's sword lowered for a lunging thrust into his opponent's spark chamber, only for the Lord Protector to feint for his real opening attack. With speed and flexibility that belied his bulk, Megatron twisted about, his spinal mounted thrusters aiding the movement as he stepped around to the right flank of Optimus to bypass the shield the Prime had unfolded from subspace. _

_Megatron had caught many opponents off-guard with this trick during his time as a gladiator in the __illegal fighting__ pits of Kaon, especially considering the speed behind the attack. But Optimus had his instincts with him, as the Last Prime twisted on his ankle servos and adjusted his shield to block the incoming slash while swinging his __energon axe__ at Megatron's shoulder joint. __Megatron snarled through his vents, Optimus had gotten faster since their last clash several vorns ago, the lord of the Decepticons barely had enough time to lean his chassis out of the way from that __crackling__ sweeping edge. Optimus had no intention of relenting though as he followed up with a mighty shield bash, the dense cybetronium alloy crashing into the Lord Protector's chestplates and sending him back a step._

_Megatron kept his footing and shifted another step back to recenter himself, while Optimus kept his distance, guard up for any sudden attacks. For a few nanoklicks the two leaders stared each other down, that one moment already having them strategize over their next moves. In the background, the Decagon burned __around them__, and the nearby clash of Trypticon and Metroplex shook the entire battle__field with every strike and every massive step._

_Slowly both mechs circled about, their optics taking in one another's stance and weapons positions, sizing each other up for weaknesses. Optimus was well equipped for this battle. That shield he was carrying was the biggest obstacle facing Megatron; it was doubtful that his weapons could break through the reinforced plating._

_ In an instant, Optimus surged forward, shield held facing him in a charge before turning to Megatron's right side. Megatron, knowing better than to face the attack helm on, attempted to keep himself at a reasonable distance from the shield, but Optimus was not letting him get any breathing room. For a few nanoklicks the two traded blows, back peddling, clashing, and lunging, their stances and directions changing constantly in an attempt to gain an advantage over one another. Glancing blows left deep scratches in their armored frames, nicks delivered from exposed angles, __heavy punches from Megatron and shield bashes from Optimus sent both cybertronians reeling back and forth as the melee raged on. __Neither was gaining the advantage, though as more nanoklicks passed Megatron noticed that Optimus was getting his combat pattern down, the Prime was reacting faster and was flawlessly avoiding his feints. Megatron's vents blasted searing gusts in frustration, he had spent so much time retooling his style since their last fight, and Prime was already on to it. The usual approach wasn't going to cut it anymore._

_The two mechs broke apart before once more rushing into their guards at the same time, weapons locking their opposing energies causing the air between them to shriek and __ripple while Prime's shield swung forward, the Autobot insignia carved into the middle matching coordinates with Megatron's faceplate. Megatron's heavily armored left servo raised up, the reinforced framework of the limb blocking the blow even as his tactile sensors jolted his processor with pain. It was pushing Megatron's strength to the limit just to keep that axe and shield back. The Lord Protector, flexed his servos forcefully, breaking apart Optimus' guard and slamming his pede into the Prime's abdominal plating drawing __out__ a forceful vent from the Autobot supreme commander and forcing him back. _

_Megatron's fusion cannon was out in a flas__h, aiming straight at his opponent's spark chamber. Optimus only just managed to interpose his shield between the violent discharge and his upper torso. To Megatron's surprise, the shield absorbed the beam, it's surface aglow and crackling with __power__. __Then, suddenly, Optimus Prime swung his shield out and a wave of pure white energy which slammed into Megatron, causing the Lord Protector to stumble off balance. Optimus did not waste this opportunity. __The Last Prime came charging into Megatron's guard as he tried to level his fusion cannon for another shot, firing one off just as the Prime's shield slammed the cannon and the servo aside, Megatron was wide open. The energon axe bit deep into the Decepticon's right torso, causing Megatron to bellow in pain fueled rage, but Optimus wasn't finished. The return swing cut downwards into the body of the fusion cannon, disabling the weapon, Optimus the slammed the rim on his shield into Megatron's hel__m. A retaliatory slash from the Lord Protector forced the Prime to turn right, catching the blade on his increasingly scratched and dented shield._

_With a snort, Megatron disengaged his signature weapon, letting the wrecked fusion cannon clatter uselessly to the ground. That blow from Prime had cut down to his protoform, __causing life-en to well out from the rent for a moment before crystallizing and ceasing altogether. It was not a worrying wound, he had taken worse hits than this. Megatron took a step forward, advancing swiftly on Optimus before firing his pede thrusters to propel him to the left, his blade once more seeking the Prime's shield. Optimus blocked the attack, turning his frame about to face the Lord Protector, and attempted to force his once-friend back with the flaming axe or shove him away with the shield. Megatron gave no quarter, he hammered his sword into the Prime's bulwark, forcing Optimus fully into the defensive. _

_ Optimus held fast, his optic shutters narrowed and his battlemask drawn tight against his faceplate as the servo bearing the shield began to lower. __Megatron's ceaseless assault was paying dividends, even though Prime's shield could thwart almost any attack, constant blows stressed the Prime's servomotors, and drained as he no doubt was from defending his precious capital, Optimus was feeling the pressure. __The Last Prime was forced back one step then another as Megatron slammed his blade into his opponent's weakening guard left right and center, chipping and denting the face of the shield by the nanoklick. Megatron's own systems were beginning to strain and overheat, even with his unnatural fury spurring him forward. It was going to be a test of endurance between the two warring leaders._

_Suddenly the battlefield was disrupted when Trypticon hurled Metroplex into the side of the building Megatron and Optimus were fighting on, the great Autobot titan's EM field washed over them causing the very air to reverberate in tune with the gargantuan mech's agony. Trypticon had one of Metroplex's servos – ripped from the cityformer's very shoulder – gripped in a serrated claw, it's blazing purple optics burning with the unrestrained desire to kill. __Megatron could feel the building shudder beneath his pedes, it would not take much more of a beating before it's structural integrity failed, but so long as nothing else hit it he was safe here. Of course, the moment that thought flitted through his processor was the moment Trypticon howled and charged the stricken Metroplex, smashing his own colossal bulk into the structure. Unicron damn it._

_Megatron felt the floor give out from under him as the building's bottom levels crumpled in on themselves. "Trypticon, you fool!" he bellowed as both he and Optimus Prime fell through the sagging roof._

_The Lord Protector was in freefall for several seconds before he slammed hard onto a rubble pile, the dust and smoke around him cleared as Trypticon roared, blasting the thin atmosphere away __and revealing the two titans whose immense forms threw a shadow over the shattered carcass of the building. Trypticon had Metroplex pinned down, it's claws buried deep into the great mech's thick torso plates._

_ "Trypticon; finish it!" Megatron commanded. The titan seemed to regard him with a disdainful glare before focusing back on Metroplex, tearing it's claws from the other titan and raising them upward._

_ "Metroplex!" He turned to see Optimus rising out from a pile of debris, shield and axe still in his grip and covered helm to pede in dust and ashes._

**_"Till all… are one," _**_the giant Autobot intoned, before Trypticon's claws slammed into his upper chassis, ripping, pulling, and tearing. Both of the titans EM fields clashed as the emanations of pain, joy, fear, and rage washed over the two onlookers who watched in silence as Metroplex's frame was __split open, exposing the mech's oversized spark chamber. Metroplex let loose a final roar of agony and defiance before Trypticon's elongated helm seized his foe's lifesource in it's fanged jaws before rearing back, tearing Metroplex's spark out and tossing it aside. Trypticon's victory cry shook the very foundations of the Decagon, and was heard past the outskirts of Iacon._

_ Megatron regarded the offlined enemy titan with satisfaction, "A worthy kill." Optimus was still staring, an aggrieved look in his optics before Megatron addressed him. "Metroplex was weak Orion! He was weak because he served a weak cause which has no other end beyond it's own destruction. __You were a lowly records clerk when I found you, how does it feel old friend, to be reduced to a footnote in history?"_

_ Optimus' optics blazed with a furious resolve as he stared down the approaching Decepticon leader, "After fifty-thousand vorns of __pointless conflict I finally see the truth, Megatron."_

_ "And what might that be, Orion?" Megatron sneered, his sword reigniting it's destructive sheath of energy._

_ "That __our__ war, will only leave one survivor between us!"__ The Prime's energon axe rekindled it's own fiery aura, __The Prime's shield fell to the ground with a dull clatter. __"One shall stand, one shall fall!"_

_ "__I agree!" Megatron roared, taking a thruster assisted leap into the air towards the Prime. His sword raised high in one servo, while in the other, his subspace wrist port deposited a hilt which immediately expanded into the form of his other iconic weapon; the energon mace. __Both weapons swung in a deadly arc as he touched down in front of Optimus, forcing the mech to step backward, using both his sword and a wrist blade to fend off the twin attack. The Lord Protector was constantly flowing into one sweeping attack after another, weapons moving in a slashing and smashing cross pattern and occasionally in one direction for unstoppable dual heavy blows. However, Optimus was not backing down, and was matching the former gladiator champion __as he blocked and parried, making full use of that wrist blade. It was a formidable __tradeoff__ for his reduced defenses and was far greater threat than the shield it replaced. _

_One klick passed, then another as the two legends battled, their strategies honed by eons of unremitting war being as equally matched as before. That was not to say that it was a complete standstill, __from Megatron cutting a deep gouge into Optimus' left shoulder plate or the Last Prime managing to get a quick stab into the Lord Protector's side with that wrist blade. The Prime's armor was being rent apart by his blade and mace chipping down on it. There was no respite, no hesitation in the Autobot leader's optics, he was driven to finish this long enmity once and for all. __The damage to their frames was minor, yet it was stacking up more and more as both warriors fought with greater aggression and their bodies expended more of their energy reserves. Megatron had been in countless drawn out battles before this one, and so had Prime, it was unclear whose strength would begin to fade first._

_Then it began to happen. Prime was starting to slow down and was beginning to turn his focus away from parrying and blocking and towards evading the attacks Megatron assailed him with. His cold cerulean gaze maintained the same fierceness it had assumed from the start of the fight, showing that his will remained unwavering despite the odds turning against him._

_ "__You have fought well Orion! But now it ends!" Megatron shouted, his aggression peaking at the sight of his hated enemy weakening before his optics. Optimus was venting heavily now, the heat cycling from his coolant systems rippled the air between them like a mirage; it was almost over. __Optimus clearly knew that as well, but stood his ground as Megatron's mace swung down towards his helm while his sword jabbed towards his midsection, aiming to perforate his tank. Optimus was forced to redirect the high strike with his axe while parrying the sword with his wrist blade. Megatron grinned, now he had him! Roaring like a motorbull, Megatron pressed forward, slamming into the Prime._

_ Optimus was sent reeling backward, but before he could react Megatron's mace was already in motion. Optimus Prime roared out in surprised pain as the massive spiked head slammed straight into his chest, shattering the __Prime's__ windshield panels in a cascade of glittering pieces of crysteel __as the large mech was sent flying off his pedes, twisting in the air before landing face down on the rubble._

_Megatron advanced upon the downed mech, his optics brimming with cruel intent. How long he had simulated this moment in his recharge, to finally bring an end to this accursed nuisance he had once called brother. __Optimus was trying to get up, to raise his wrist blade in defense, but Megatron's pede thwarted him, smashing the blade back down and snapping it at the base. With his axe having been knocked from his grasp by the mace strike, Prime was now unarmed. __Megatron tossed his blade aside and gripped the mace in both servos, harshly kicking the once mighty Autobot in the side to turn him over on his back._

_ "__I will tear the Matrix from your spark core, Orion. Die knowing that Cybertron will rise again under my rule."__Megatron rose the mace over his head, preparing to crush the helm of his adversary._

_ "Even if you destroy me Megatron, others will rise to __defeat your tyranny." Optimus countered, his optics still bright with defiance._

_ "They will fail as you have failed, __goodbye__ 'Brother'!" _

_Suddenly, Trypticon screamed. Megatron's gaze turned to see a blooming fireball erupt on the side of the titan's head, causing it to tip over to the side. An assault shuttle with Autobot markings was diving towards the battlefield, it's front boarding ramp open with a large mech standing in the squad bay, with an equally large ion displacer in his servos. Megatron was forced to dive aside as Bulkhead opened up on him with the heavy weapon, a storm of hard-light projectiles tore through the loose cover with ease, forcing the Lord Protector to seek more substantial shelter behind the massive graying hulk of Metroplex. He gazed over the cover to see Optimus Prime staggering upward and making his way to the idling shuttle._

_ "__Starscream!" Megatron snapped into the command comm, "Optimus Prime is escaping! Stop him at once!" _

_ "__Apologies my Lord, my Seekers have been dismissed from the field, I fear it is out of my hands!" Starscream's beating was going to be _**_especially_**_ brutal this time._

_ "__Trypticon! Destroy them!" Megatron roared to the still recovering cityformer. But it was too late, he could see Bulkhead and the Autobot SIC, Prowl, hauling the damaged Prime onto the ramp and the shuttle immediately ascending. Megatron's dentes crushed together as he could only watch as Optimus Prime made his escape from Cybertron, and from him._

* * *

The war should have ended that orn. The Matrix had escaped his grasp, along with it's unworthy bearer; and with both unaccounted for the rebellion endured, and Cybertron's core grew dimmer with every passing groon. In the end, the final battle of Iacon had become a costly and hollow victory for his cause; if the Autobots managed to regroup and reorganize, Megatron would once more find himself where he started – fighting an endless war which was slowly but surely destroying Cybertron.

As he ruminated, his audios picked up the telltale sound of the lift at the center of the vast chamber climbing up the tower, bearing a single passenger. The mech standing atop the circular conveyance platform was a fair bit taller than average, but the top of his helm would barely come up to Megatron's upper torso plates if they were to stand side by side. The mech possessed a wide-bodied framework similar to his own to accommodate a transparent faced hatch, marking him as a very rare breed of warrior known as a Summoner. His faceplate was completely concealed by a glowing red straight-band visor and a wedge-shaped battlemask, completely concealing any form of expression beyond subtle tells of body language. His only obvious armament besides the cassettes he concealed inside his torso deck was a rotary pulse blaster mounted over his right shoulder. Though he did not look like much at first glance, anyone that knew of his reputation would be on guard. He was Soundwave, Megatron's personal Communication's Officer and unofficial spymaster.

Soundwave was one of his most reliable instruments, and had rarely ever failed him. He was thorough, calculating, merciless, and above all else he was loyal; Megatron would be hard pressed to find another quite so proficient as his Communications Officer. As much as Starscream preened and ranted, everyone else in Megatron's high command knew who truly had the Lord Protector's confidence, something the vainglorious Seeker has not – and never will – attained.

"Megatron; Soundwave reporting as commanded." The mech addressed in his eerie sonorous monotone. Rumors abounded as to the origin behind the communication officer's unusual speech pattern, whether it was intentional or the result of trauma from before the war. Megatron had always attributed it as a side effect to the mysterious enhancements to his Outlier programming that endowed Soundwave with his unusual abilities, enhancements that – to Megatron's knowledge – were completely unique to him.

"Give me an update Soundwave, what is the status of our operations on the surface?" In an earlier time, Megatron could have gotten status reports directly from his commanders with nary a concern for malfeasance and deception. But in this current era, the list of honest and reliable command officers has grown distressingly short. Onslaught, Scrapper, and Motormaster were among the few that Megatron could depend on to see his will through without reservation, and even then the Lord Protector did not dare to trust their intentions completely, that road led only to treachery and death. If he really wished to know what his warriors were doing, it would have to be through the only mech he _did _trust, although grudgingly.

"Satisfactory; The pacification efforts in Iacon and Gygax are proceeding as planned. Surviving Autobot forces have retreated to the outskirts and underworks of both states. Insecticons; dispatched into sub-levels to eradicate survivors. Seekers; patrolling Sea of Rust to eradicate survivors."

Megatron almost pitied the Autobots facing the Insecticons; almost. The Insecticons were introduced to offset the strain Autobot prisoners of war placed upon his operations, the prisoners were mindwiped, aggressively reconfigured into near-perfect killing machines, and set loose upon their erstwhile comrades. What made them a true terror was the way they fed, their energy processing systems were reverse engineered from those of the ever-feared Scraplets, endowing the Insecticons with a voracious hunger for living metal. They were typically kept in stasis between deployments, due in part to their eating habits but mostly because his Decepticons held a near universal disgust for them, leading to several Insecticons 'dying heroically for the cause' suspiciously far from enemy lines.

The Seekers were a strange bunch that toed the line between military unit and a cult. They were comprised entirely of jet-form Cybertronians that were initially drawn from the vicious airborne gangs that used to plague the skies over the city-state of Vos; they were hyper-grade addled anarchists who had refashioned their alt-modes into slender and deadly forms that emphasized speed and maneuverability. When Megatron conquered Vos early in his initial uprising, he brought the violent anarchists into his service by having Sunstorm – Starscream's predecessor – eliminate their previous Alpha-jet in an air duel, thereby taking leadership of the combined gangs. Since then the Seekers have proven their use time and again as scouts, assassins, and dogfighters, and had established themselves as a powerful military clique that held themselves above lesser fliers and so-called groundlings. Like the Insecticons, the Seekers were not too popular with the rest of the Decepticons.

"Autobot survivors: regrouping. Leader: identified. Special Operations Commander Elita-1." Soundwave pressed a panel on top of his box shaped torso plate, a holoprojector flicked up and produced the life-sized image of an unusually tall femme with a lithe build with white armor decorated with crimson and magenta accents. Her faceplate possessed a hard, angular beauty, much like a finely crafted sword, and her cerulean blue optics shone with fierce determination. When she spoke it was with a no-nonsense low-Iaconese accent.

_"__Soldiers of the Autobots; I, Elita-1, __address you __this orn__ not as a superior officer, __nor as sparkmate of a Prime,__ but as a sister in arms prepared to lay down my spark to protect the ideals of our people. __Though Optimus Prime no longer stands among us, he has _**_not_**_ abandoned us! Even now our comrades gather in the depths of space, __preparing to reengage the __murderous__ beasts who now hunt us in the ashes of our cities. __But until they return, we have our own part to play.__ We have a duty to our people stand against the weight of tyranny, and throw off our oppressors. When I look upon our world I do not see a planet of smoldering ruins ruled over by a deluded __tyrant__… no I see __the hope for a better future… a better future for our children yet to be sparked. __I stand before you now to reaffirm my commitment to our struggle, and I call upon those left undecided to take up arms and cast down the Decepticon invaders, Megatron may have taken Iacon, but he will _**_Never. Take. Our. Freedom!_**_"_

The holoclip finished, Soundwave retracted the holoprojector into his chassis, giving no outward reaction to Elita-1's impassioned diatribe against his cause.

"What a rousing little speech," Megatron mused at last, "Unfortunately, there will be no help coming for her. When was this made?"

"Creation date: unknown. Holoclip copied from original broadcast. Distributed in Neutral polities: three-thousand four-hundred twenty-one copies found in Protihex alone, and counting."

Megatron frowned. Even to this day, there were still Neutral enclaves on Cybertron, with the destitute slums of Protihex being the largest. While the city had officially pledged it's allegiance to the Decepticon Alliance, the majority of it's citizenry wanted nothing to do with either side.

"I want anyone found in possession of this holoclip detained and questioned. Anyone found distributing it I want interrogated and permanently deactivated. No exceptions." He glared intently into Soundwave's crimson visor, "In addition, I want that femme found. Bring Elita-1 to me alive. She knows where Optimus Prime is hiding, and she is going to tell me; even if it means I must tear the secret from her living spark."

"Understood Megatron." Soundwave acquiesced dutifully.

"Are there any updates on Shockwave's activities?"

With the war for Cybertron as good as finished, other threats that had once been dormant were starting to stir; namely his own followers, particularly Starscream and Shockwave. It was no secret that Starscream coveted Megatron's throne, and his loyalty in the past eons had been shaky at best. Megatron kept Starscream around because he was actually proficient in his current duties, and also because his clumsy plotting drew out the better hidden traitors in his ranks. Although, his uses in both roles was running dry lately, perhaps the time to retire the megalomaniac was drawing near? Shockwave was a different story; Megatron did not buy the twisted mech's feigned loyalty for an instant, but at the same time – unlike Starscream – Shockwave was _irreplaceable_. He was the single greatest scientific mind left to the cybertronian people, and his value as an intellectual resource could not be understated, especially now with Cybertron's core weakening, and a solution yet to be discovered. But at the same time, he knew in his darkened spark that the logic-bound scientist was up to something.

"Science Commander Shockwave is currently performing unspecified experimental enhancements upon members of an Autobot splinter cell codenamed: Lightning Strike Coalition. Rebels soldiers Grimlock, Slag, Sludge, Slash, Snarl, and Swoop are confirmed as active test subjects." Soundwave reported without visible emotion.

"He has Grimlock," Megatron mused. Grimlock was the only mech other than Optimus Prime to have ever faced him in single combat more than once and lived, and the only one to have ever matched him in contests of sheer strength, he was without a doubt one of the most powerful warriors he had ever fought. A magnificent fighter like that was worth killing personally, preferably in a gladiatorial arena, and not on Shockwave's operating table.

But why Grimlock and his whole team? What was Shockwave up to that he needed not only one of the deadliest warriors in the Universe but his entire team who were themselves fairly dangerous adversaries? The first answer to pop into Megatron's processor was subjugation. If Shockwave managed to artificially acquire Grimlock's loyalty, and enhanced the mech to the right degree… Megatron felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement course through his circuits. _Unicron's blood! What a fight that would be!_

"Shockwave can continue his little side project… for now. I cannot afford to chase off my best scientist at this juncture, I still have work for him to do. And until that role is expended, I will not permit any overt action against him. Do you have anything further to report?"

"Affirmative. Sub-commander Shatter, First-lieutenant Blitzwing, Master Sergeant Dropkick; missing. Probability of Autobot interference: significant."

Megatron frowned, "I know these designations… what has happened to them?"

"First-lieutenant Blitzwing: seeker class. Dispatched to Sector Gamma seven-six-seven-eight-one-five-zero following the conclusion of operations in Iacon City. Mission objective: Locate, pursue, eliminate, and report on Autobot forces in hiding. Triple-changers Shatter and Dropkick reported to medical officer Deadlift in response to spark stress imparted through their trine-class bond with First-lieutenant Blitzwing. Sub-commander Shatter and Master Sergeant Dropkick failed to report at their assigned posts the following megacycle, both are officially flagged as Away Without Leave. Their departure has been logged at space-bridge station Valtecon-four at the far edge of the system, they were bridged to the Cylo system and from there presumably they took one of the many pirate bridges to Blitzwing's last known position."

Sub-commander Shatter, he knew of her. Kaonese, formerly part of the upper class officer-caste of Kaon's security enforcers, an unusual supporter for his cause. Megatron kept an optic out for up and comers in the ranks of his soldiers, those who had the wit, skill, and drive needed to carry out his orders and see his will made manifest in the vast canvas of the Universe. Shatter's designation was on the Red List, an unofficial roll of mechs and femmes that were marked down by their superiors as being eligible for promotion to full Commander, and Shatter had been a highly capable field officer since the first orns of the Revolution so many eons ago, and had stood firm and unwavering in her support for the cause since then. He had first been introduced to her through Shockwave after the ingenious mech had converted her into a Triple Changer, where she had been chosen to showcase her new abilities before the Lord Protector. Since then he had kept the femme on his radar.

He knew less about Shatter's companion, master sergeant Dropkick. One of the few Praxians in service with the Decpticons. He had been a gangster and part-time gladiator, the type of mech that his forces had been teeming with when the war had swung in full force. The mech continued to serve in relative obscurity until one fateful orn where he brutally assaulted a superior officer who tried to flaunt his rank too forcefully over the short-tempered shock trooper; Dropkick was unceremoniously arrested and put on trial where he was found guilty. The mech's punishment was to be handed over to Shockwave for live experimentation, a fate that many saw as worse than death. Through sheer belligerence and stubbornness, Dropkick managed to not only survive Shockwave's merciless attentions, but had been the first to successfully integrate the Triple Changer modifications, the mech was then pardoned and re-embraced by the cause. But the experience had made the mech's temperament even more volatile.

Now that he thought about it, every Triple Changer besides Shatter had developed a bewildering array of eccentricities and anti-social behaviors, it was the primary reason why so few soldiers had undergone the augmentation process before Megatron had the project shut down. While he appreciated the effect an elite band of life-en thirsty, cackling maniacs had on Autobot morale; the very idea of having more cretins like Sixshot and Astrotrain mucking about gave him a helmache – there were too many unproductive madmechs in his service to begin with.

That left Blitzwing, the Seeker. Compared to the other two, Blitzwing was fairly unremarkable; the members of his original trine were all offlined at the thirteenth Battle of Tyger Pax, after surviving the strain the loss levied upon his spark, the Seeker became something of an outcast among his kind. Perhaps it was this ostracization that compelled Blitzwing to surrender himself to Shockwave's knife, but in either event the Science Commander deemed the Seeker unfit for augmentation, but kept him around to aid in training the triple-changers in the ways of flight. It was there that he apparently became acquainted with Dropkick and Shatter, and stayed with them long enough to somehow establish a trine bond with the former ground pounders. The other seekers were less than thrilled with that development.

It was not unheard of for Decepticons from the more unruly units to go AWOL for whatever personal reasons (most of them being for material gain or power plays). Bonded warriors often did so when one of their own had been separated from the pack, this was especially the case with trined seekers. When they felt their wing-brother's distress, they would have been compelled to rush to his aid, regardless of how many pedes they would be stepping on. He remembered that one time when Dreadwing abandoned his post for three deca-vorns to search for his missing brother Skyquake, and that mech was among the most loyal of his followers. Even Shatter's professional decorum would have done little to hold her and Dropkick back from this insubordinate action. The femme had bearings, he would give her that, but she and her brutish partner would still be held to account for their dereliction of duty.

The disappearance of Blitzwing could be brushed off, the mech was a weakling after all and Megatron would not be surprised if the seeker had crashed into an asteroid and offlined himself. But his two stronger and more competent trine mates too? And both going missing in the same region of space? That spoke of something more complicated, such as foulplay within the ranks. But who could have done it? And for what reason? There was Dropkick's old CO, who had never gotten over the fact that the mech had gotten away scot-free with pounding his helm into the dirt. Shatter and Starscream did have an intense enmity for one another before the latter had been promoted to Air Commander – his probes into the vainglorious seeker's past had revealed that much. Megatron would not put it beyond him to even some old score with the femme now that the war on Cybertron was winding down; Megatron had a feeling that this wasn't the case, but it remained a possibility. The other obvious conclusion was that they had all been either killed or captured by the Autobots, a scenario whose mere probability necessitated quick and decisive action.

"Send the word to Starscream, have his Seekers concentrate their search on that region of the galaxy. Also, be certain to make mention of our missing soldiers," Megatron commanded. The knowledge that an old rival is possibly alone and vulnerable would entice the seeker commander to be all the more thorough in the hunt, either to humiliate or eliminate her was anyone's guess. Although, if those three did survive, and led him to the Autobots, then perhaps they could be spared punishment. Perhaps he could entice the femme, Shatter, to work for him as a spy against Shockwave, her dossier did make mention of her loyalty to the cause itself before the dictates of her superiors; that was assuming however that she wasn't already offlined permanently by now. At the very least he wouldn't have to deal with Starscream's treacherous antics for a while.

"Affirmitive; Lord Megatron," The telepath responded, "Soundwave; will pursue objectives immediately."

"You are dismissed," Megatron confirmed, waving him off. Soundwave turned about without further ceremony and plodded back towards the lift in silence. Megatron turned back to the massive viewing portal next to his throne and beheld the glory of his newly reunited planet, and thought back upon Elita-1's proclaimation and scoffed internally.

Freedom would not restore Cybertron to glory.

For Cybertron to rise _beyond _it's former greatness it needed firm leadership, _his _leadership.

From his leadership there would be order, from order there will be unity, and from unity comes strength.

Cybertron's future may not be _'free'_, but it would be strong.

He would make it so.

* * *

**Author's Note: This chapter took a little longer to get right. Fleshing out action sequences are difficult for me, especially when the setting is a warzone the scale of Cybertron. I may or may not return to this chapter to revise it a little. Please leave reviews!**


	7. Mystery Machine

**Donald**

After dropping Patrick off at his house, Donny had returned to his own home with the Firebird in tow. He was hoping to get the Pontiac off the trailer under it's own power, a futile hope for a car that had been submerged in salt water for at least a few weeks – and therefor requiring a complete engine rebuild – but Donny had a feeling that there was something else at work here. Astonishingly, the engine wasn't hydrolocked, and appeared fit to be started, so long as he could find out what was holding it back.

Donny had broken out his toolkit for the occasion and with the bonnet propped up above him he was searching the compartment for potential problems. He checked the wiring for faults, tightening down all connections and making sure everything was where it was supposed to be. The longer he rooted around the Firebird's engine, the stronger his gut feeling of apprehensiveness grew. None of this made any kind of sense, if the junkyard proprietor hadn't told him otherwise Donny would swear up and down this car had never set so much as a single tire into the Bay; the body may have gone to shit, but the engine was still viable.

He had taken the liberty of putting some gas in the Firebird's tank, courtesy of the large gasoline canister he kept in the garage to refuel the lawnmower.

He reached for his wrench balanced on top of the carburetor scoop, his tired fingers accidentally knocked it away and off the side. Donny cursed as he watched the tool tumble down to the bottom of the compartment. He was about to reach in after it when he heard the clank of metal on wood towards the rear end of the Firebird. Curiously he peeked over and saw… his wrench, sitting on the wooden plank trailer bed right next to the left rear wheel. Shocked, Donny leaned back over the engine compartment and reached down past the block to feel around the floor of the compartment, he reached further and felt… rubber? His fingers brushed unseen against a tread pattern, a tire? He withdrew his hand and immediately he felt a tingling sensation across his fingers and halfway down his palm, he looked at his hand alarmed, only to find nothing out of the ordinary.

"What the hell?"

He walked over to the back of the Firebird and picked up the wrench from where it lay next to the tire, he then headed back to the front. He studied the wrench closely, an idea settling in his head; he then dropped the wrench into the gap between the firewall and the engine block, looking off to the side as he did so. The wrench once more clattered onto the rear trailer bed, right next to the left rear wheel. Still not quite believing what he was seeing with his own eyes, Donny took a handful of drive fittings for his socket wrench from the toolbag and dropped them into the gap. The drive fittings tumbled off the rear tire, and onto the bed and driveway, followed by something much larger that hit the bed with a loud report. He walked back again, and in addition to the fittings he saw a gleaming metal disc laying where it fell beneath the undercarriage. Curious, he pulled it out.

The disk was roughly a foot in diameter, it's surface was a polished gold with one side etched with an array of strange symbols whose meaning went right over his head. Still, it looked pretty valuable.

After contemplating the anomaly of wrenches being transported from one end of the car to the other, and golden discs appearing from nowhere, Donny decided to give the Firebird a rest for the day. He brought the disc inside the house and set it on top of the small dining table inside the kitchen. On closer examination he noticed the seam running along the circumference of the disc's band. It wasn't simply a disc, it was a cast of some sort.

Donny pulled a small steak knife from a nearby drawer, and levered it into the groove. After a few moments, the lid popped free.

Inside was a record, colored a clean metallic golden color a few shades lighter than the case it came in. Upon the center plate the title read: _'THE SOUNDS OF EARTH' _

No publisher, no artist, only the two lines: United States of America, Planet Earth. Very peculiar, but then he had never before seen a record disc of such high quality. Unwilling to risk getting the record scratched, he replaced the cover and set the gleaming case aside. It was then that he began to register a prickling sensation on the fingers of his right hand. Looking closer, he noticed that the flesh all the way up to knuckles and the first joint of his thumb had reddened with a sharp line of contrast.

That was odd. Before turning in for the night, he rubbed his fingers with aloe vera. Hopefully it would stop bothering him come next morning.

* * *

The aloe vera did nothing to stem the irritation. When he woke up next morning, his fingers and thumb were stinging painfully and they were now noticibly inflamed. That was when he decided to pay a visit to the nearby clinic to have the 'mystery rash' looked at.

The nearby clinic in Brighton Falls was a rather modest establishment, it was composed of a single level and employed only a handful of general practitioners. Donny rarely had cause to check into this place, this was his fifth visit in total.

Doctor Poole was a world away from Doctor Parrot. Unlike the kindly middle-aged physician from the recovery ward, Poole was at least twenty years older, did not wear the typical white coat over his maroon collared shirt, and his hard gray eyes were eternally scrunched behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses. He kinda looked like Larry King, especially with the suspenders he wore over his hunched bony shoulders. When he spoke, Donny could tell he was also a heavy smoker.

"Have you been using lab equipment Mr. Davis? An X-ray or some other device perhaps?" Poole croaked, raising a graying eyebrow at his patient.

"No, why?" Donny asked.

"Burns such as this are only caused by exposure to low to mid level ionizing radiation, Mr. Davis," the doctor said sternly, "You're lucky, the probability of long term damage is unlikely but next time I suggest you invest in personal protective equipment; or better yet keep your distance from radiation sources altogether."

Radiation. But where and when did it happen? His mind instantly traveled back to yesterday, when he had uncovered the Firebird's latest oddity. When he reached his hand in, he had felt a stinging pain.

Doctor Poole carefully wrapped his hand with a dry bandage, encasing it in clean cloth all the way to his wrist. "Keep it clean, and don't get it wet. If it is still there after more than a week, come back and I'll take another look."

If it wasn't clear to him before, he was certain of it now. He has officially entered the Twilight Zone.

* * *

When he went to work the following day, predictably he drew some attention.

"What's up with you hand?" Patrick asked, concern coloring his tone as he took in Donny's bandaged fingers and thumb.

"I burned my hand on the stove," he lied, "Doctor says it isn't too bad and it should heal in a week or so."

Patrick didn't look completely convinced but said no more on the matter. His co-workers were understanding of his plight and let him take on the lighter duties in the shop for the day. He worked in silence, ignoring the irritating throb of his irradiated fingers and the concerned looks his friend sent his way every once in a while. When lunch time finally arrived, both men left the shop and walked to the Carl's Jr. just across the street.

"Has the car been giving you any much trouble?" Patrick asked him as they sat down at a small table next to the window, their trays of food ignored for the moment.

"It feels like I'm working with something from another planet," Donny responded distractedly, chewing on a lightly salted fry. He wasn't exactly sure if he should tell Patrick everything; he would probably think he was going nuts. Hell, he was even starting to second guess his own sanity.

"Well it was pulled out of the Bay," Patrick reminded him, "The fact that the engine can even make noise is a miracle, you're still probably going to have to pull the entire block out."

"Maybe," was Donny's halfhearted reply. He had come to a similar conclusion, and yet he was apprehensive. The entire time he had spent working on the engine the previous two days he had felt like he was sticking his hands into the jaws of a crocodile

The paranoid part of his mind told him that he should stop; there were too many things out of place with the Firebird and he should take it back to the junkyard and forget about ever having found it. But the other, more adventurous part of him – the part that had mostly stayed quiet since waking up in the hospital – was enthralled by the mystery surrounding the Firebird, this was a once in a lifetime discovery waiting to be explored; it made him all the more eager to continue on with his restoration plans. Except those plans would need a lot of revisioning, the Firebird was different from other cars he had worked on.

"You're not planning on giving up already, are you?" Patrick asked him.

"No," Donny said with resolution, "I've got this, just a little bit overwhelmed by the details is all."

"No surprises there," Patrick agreed, "Most of the cars we work on are already road legal and mostly functional, your Firebird on the other hand… not so much." He paused to take a bite out of his hamburger, "Have you gotten it registered yet?"

"Not yet," Donny answered, taking a smaller bite from his own meal, "I'll do it when the car's good and ready." Truth be told, Donny was wary of taking the Firebird out for an inspection, he was half afraid something crazy would happen and he would get in deep shit for it, the wrench thing alone was enough to get him onto international news. And more than likely, he would lose custody of the vehicle in the long run.

"I can help if you want," Patrick offered, "I have a few tricks you may not have tried yet."

Donny considered it, but eventually decided it was too risky to bring someone else on until he had it all figured out, "Thanks man, but I want to give it another shot before calling for help."

Patrick sighed to himself, obviously dispirited. Donny felt guilt well up inside him, he didn't want to distance himself from his friends, really, but in this case he didn't think there was much of a choice. He only hoped that this distance between him and his friends didn't widen because of this new project. The two friends finished their meals in silence for the rest of the break, and for the rest of the shift that uncomfortable silence would continue.

He hated lying to his friends, it honestly felt like a step backward in his road to redeeming himself of his past mistakes. But he resolved that once he uncovers the mystery behind the Firebird, he wouldn't hold back on them anymore. But first, he had to make the first step; he needed to get the damned thing running.

* * *

He filled a pair of five gallon gasoline cans on the way back from Midas, enough to get the Trans-Am's tank a little over half full. After dumping the fuel into muscle car, he started again where he had left off. Popping the hood, and making sure to slip a newly purchased lead lined glove on his unbandaged hand, Donny completed his examination of the engine. It should be working, so it must be the battery that needs attention. He was going to attempt a jumpstart next.

He brought the Sierra alongside the trailer, and then took the jumper cable from the utility box in the bed. Walking back over to the Firebird he was once more overcome with the impulse to make small talk.

"I'm going to try something different today," Donny told the Firebird as he clamped the connections of the jumper cables to the muscle car's battery. "The way I figure it, you look pretty good under here for a girl that's recently gone swimming, and I have already tried everything else to get you started. Maybe all you need is a little extra push in the right direction, what do you think?"

The Pontiac was silent, but at this point Donny had fully given himself over to the twisted surreality that surrounded the seemingly innocuous derelict. In his overactive state of imagination he could almost feel the car urging him to get on with it, like it was impatient. Donny wondered if this was what Arnie Cunningham went through when fixing up Christine, if he restored the Firebird would it start killing people too? For the life of him, Donny found that he couldn't answer that question with full confidence; his newest car had already shown itself to be quite capable of all kinds of weird shit.

After connecting the other ends of the red cable to the battery mounted in the pickup, Donny made his way over to the Firebird, not noticing the emerald sparks arcing in precise intervals between the muscle car's battery and the jaws of the cable clamp. Seating himself in the grimy driver's seat, he withdrew the cold and heavy key from his pocket and slotted it into the ignition. After a steady inhale and a silent prayer he turned the key.

The engine roared to life instantly. Donny was left breathless in his seat as his ears took in the Firebird's glorious idling tune; unable to help himself, he stepped on the gas pedal revving up the engine experimentally, the entire car seemed to vibrate as a powerful mechanical growl rang through the air, sounding very much like it wanted to devour Donny's heart and soul.

"Yes!" Donny whooped, raising his arms up to the driver's side sunroof with total elation. In that moment, all his misgivings about the Firebird were washed away by the deep guttural rhythm of combustion rising out from the open hood. Remembering himself, he opened the door and stepped off the trailer before stepping back on again in front of the idling muscle car. He disconnected the jumper cable, dropping them onto the trailer floorboards before getting off again to reenter the Firebird. He shifted the vehicle into reverse and stuck his head out of the side window to keep an eye on the open garage door behind him (the rear window was still too dirty to see through). He carefully guided the Firebird onto the rear ramp, onto the driveway, and through the open portal leading into the recently cleared out garage. When he came to a stop, he turned off the engine.

He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, and gazed at the peculiar mask symbol etched into the center of the horn cap.

"I think you need a name," he said softly. He had never bothered to name the Mazda, Patrick always affectionately referred to the Sierra as 'the Brick' but Donny had never taken to it. Yet for this car he was tempted to do something different, there was so much mystery to the vehicle, so many unanswered questions. He pondered for a few moments before an idea struck him.

"I will call you Phoenix," he said with a grin. Not the most creative name to place on a Firebird, but to Donny it was fitting. Both of them were damaged, but together – like the phoenix – they would rise again stronger than ever.

Still smiling to himself, he exited Phoenix and walked over to his Sierra, intending to get it squared away and returned to the garage. Detaching the jumper cables from the battery and closing the hood, he entered the cab and turned the ignition. Nothing. He tried again and received not even a single sound from under the hood.

The Sierra's battery was dead.

* * *

**Charlie Watson**

Five months and two weeks. That was how long it had been since Charlie had last seen Bumblebee, and in those five and a half months, there had been some changes. Her mother and Ron had finally gotten married, a union that Charlie had previously only held antagonism for. Yet since bailing her and Bee out from the Sector Seven pursuit through Brighton Falls, she had found herself warming up to the idea, he had at the very least earned her respect. Her only misgiving was the wedding ceremony. The Lutheran church that they were wedded in was extremely archaic in it's practices; the minister doing the ceremony had ponderously lead the guests through prayer after long winded prayer before actually proclaiming Ron and her mother husband and wife, and even after that there were three more prayers.

Charlie had also finished restoring the '57 Corvette. In the end, she had decided to paint it yellow, both to honor her best friend, and because red seriously wasn't her favorite color at the moment. It was silly perhaps, but ever since she learned that the female Decepticon was on the loose, she had been wary of any vehicle that _might _be her. According to Sector Seven, Bonnie's previous disguise – the grotesquely over-customized Plymouth GTX – had most likely been discarded in favor of another one. The corvette itself ran like a dream, and she enjoyed turning heads wherever she went, but she would still give it up for just another ride in a certain crummy yellow beetle.

Speaking of the beetle, she had been working on the damaged radio all Summer long. The device was deceptively complex, and she had to do her homework trying to figure out how to put it all together. For one, it was larger on the inside than it was on the outside, a kind of subspace, if she was to put a name on it. She had searched far and wide for the things she needed to wrap up her personal project, and much of it had all been down to guesswork.

She had come across the components of a used ham radio set in a garage sale last month, and had painstakingly jury rigged Bumblebee's radio deck to the system. Neither her mother nor Ron knew what she was planning, and she intended to keep it that way; both of them would freak if they knew that she intended to involve herself in a prehistoric alien war. It was already too late for that, she knew where she stood and it wasn't on the sidelines.

Now everything was finally set up. It had taken her almost half a year to come this far, and the result: a hodge podge of jury rigged components and antiquated technology hooked up to an alien device that defied the laws of physics.

"Please let this work," Charlie said to herself as she connected the system to the power source consisting of four truck batteries linked together, a green flicker lit the case of the radio deck from within. Fingers crossed, she turned on the mic.

"Bumblebee?"

* * *

**Bumblebee**

_"__\- you have only begun to discover your power! Join me, and I shall complete your training; and __with our combined strength we can end this destructive conflict__, and __bring order to the Galaxy__!"_

_ "__I'll never join you!"_

_ "If you only knew the power of the Dark Side… Obi-wan never told you what happened to your father."_

_ "He told me enough! He told me you killed him!"_

_ "No, I am your father!"_

Darth Vader had been Luke's sire all along, talk about a doozy. As Mark Hamill screamed in denial, Bumblebee took a long sip from a mid-grade cube of energon, seated upon a large hand-forged metal bench in front of a comparatively small television set. He found himself enjoying Empire Strikes Back better than A New Hope; the drama and excitement were definitely more pronounced in the second movie of the trilogy.

Within the depths of the partially constructed Autobase, Bumblebee had created a bare bones home theater inside what he had tentatively designated as the future wreck-room. It had given him something to do with the large amounts of free time he had in his servos; most of the actual base building was being done by the drones that had arrived with the first drop and the inactivity had been making him antsy. Several times he thought about trying to pay Charlie a quick visit, she was the only friend he had on this little blue rock – the weird guy that tagged along with them didn't exactly count – and he was starting to feel a bit lonesome.

But such an action was fraught with intolerable risks. He knew for a fact that Sector Seven had her, and her family under watch, presumably to wait for him to make just such a blunder. He was further aware that the humans would show him no mercy if they got their hands on him; they had yet to define life beyond their decaying organic mores, and saw in him only a balky piece of machinery to be broken, analyzed, and reverse engineered. Not for the first time Bumblebee wondered why in the Pit Optimus thought Earth was a good place for the Autobots to regroup and rebuild.

The second supply drop had come with an unexpected bonus. It was a holoform, a small stick-like metal frame that was capable of configuring itself into multiple structures, and then forming a photo-reactive gel layer that could mold itself into organic body shapes which a hologram could form around to give off a simulacrum of life. Holoforms were not standard equipment by any means, they were rare niche tools that did not see very much use anymore since the civil war kicked off; Perceptor or maybe Wheeljack must have whipped this one up for him. He had used the holoform to great effect infiltrating the city of Las Vegas, where he practiced fitting in with humanity under a variety of disguises both male and female. He also partook in the local gambling scene, but got a little carried away with it when he started winning big; suffice it to say he was exceptionally well heeled for a loner living it out in the northern parts of the Mojave.

He had used the money to build his home theater and rent out VHS tapes from a Blockbuster rental store in Carson City; it had managed to take a dent out of his mind numbing boredom, but not by much. It was still better than counting off the days until the first Autobot reinforcements arrived, or wandering the empty halls and chambers of the unfinished Autobase.

As the movie came to a close and the credits rolled, Bumblebee reached for the plastic case containing the video cassette for Return of the Jedi when a familiar voice floated through his comm channel.

_"__Bumblebee?" _

That voice. It couldn't be! He sent out a mental command, bidding Leemo to dock with him. The cassette obediently folded down between his shoulder struts, he then directly linked to the small drone's vocal processor.

"Charlie, is that you?" He asked, cringing inwardly as he spoke the words in Leemo's dramatized cant, he couldn't wait for the day he got his own pipes back.

He heard Charlie squee in victory, she had apparently been working hard to contact him. But how did she manage to get his frequency? _"Yes! It's me, I have been trying to call you for months now! I fixed your radio, the old one. I thought if I could fix it, we could-"_

"YOU'VE BEEN EXPERIMENTING ON MY BIOMECHANICS?!" Bumblebee yelped, falling off the bench as he literally reeled backwards. Swishy tail! Cybercat ears! Unicron take you Wheeljack!

_ "Wha- God Bee I am so sorry! I didn't mean to- I was just so worried and-"_

"No, no! It's fine, just some bad experiences is all," he reassured, calming himself down. Charlie wasn't Wheeljack, she couldn't have done something _that _horrible. And if he could forgive Jack, he could definitely forgive Charlie. He had thought she had thrown out the radio, and he had lamented the loss of a part of himself – his backup comm system to be exact – and had put it out of mind, she couldn't have known about that particular pet peeve of his.

_"Okay… wait, you can talk now?"_

"Not exactly, I'm borrowing the voice of a friend right now… it's complicated." He said as he got back to his pedes, brushing the dust off his frame. In spite of how it happened, Bumblebee was glad that he could finally speak to somebody other than Leemo, who while being unfailingly upbeat and optimistic, wasn't really one to share a deep conversation with.

_"Okay, well forget about that right now, we're in big trouble. Bonnie's still alive Bee!"_

"Who's Bonnie?"

_"The Decepticon! The red one, she survived the crash."_

Bumblebee felt his optics widen to their maximum extent. His spark core stilled within it's chamber as his processor registered Charlie's words.

"Tell me what you know." Bumblebee instructed.

While Charlie spoke, Bumblebee listened in silence. But his processor was left reeling over the ramifications this new information had on his mission; Shatter was still alive! He still had aches in his protoform from their fight earlier this year, and the thought of a 'Round Two' did not fill him with that much optimism. That femme had been offlining mechs bigger and more experienced than him long before the Allspark brought his spark into being, he had only managed to scrape out a victory because she had been more focused on hurting him rather than going straight for the kill – dragging out the fight long enough for him to find a way to beat her.

Fortunately for him, without the transmitter her threat towards the success of his mission was greatly reduced. Without it, she had no way to contact the Decepticon armies on Cybertron, nor could she call in a space bridge from a local hub. Decepticon teams rarely had more than one of those transmitters on them when scouting off the grid, and from the look he had seen on her faceplate when Charlie brought it down, that had been her only one. She was trapped on this planet with him… or rather _he_ was trapped on this planet with _her_.

The Hyperpulse Generator was going to be arriving soon. He could use it to contact Optimus, and then ask for reinforcements to help hunt down the triple-changer and end her threat once and for all. But that was still going to be a worryingly long wait between then and now.

_"__I'm scared, Bumblebee," _Charlie admitted, her tone lowering and reflecting her anxiety, _"I'm afraid that the people I care about are going to die."_

"I know how you feel," Bumblebee reassured, "Trust me, I have lived there my entire life. The 'Cons are chasing my family across the galaxy right now, and I still don't know who has made it… and who hasn't."

Though he was very young compared to his comrades, Bumblebee had seen too many of them come and go fighting this war. And with the tide turned firmly against his people, the sight of his friends dying had become a common occurrence, and no matter how many times it happened it didn't get any easier for him.

"Listen Charlie, I need you to be brave for me. That Decepticon… her real designation is Shatter, an elite triple-changer. If you even think that she is near you, I want you to take your family and run as far and as fast as you can. Do you understand?"

_"__I need your help Bee, I can't protect them. Sector Seven can't protect them. You're the only one who can stop her, please."_

Bumblebee was torn. He needed to oversee the development of Autobase and secure the incoming supply shipments; they were vital to Optimus Prime's initial strategy of settling Earth. But on the other servo there was Charlie, his friend whose life was being threatened by a _very _dangerous Decepticon triple-changer; if she was killed when he could have protected her, the guilt would haunt him all the way to the Well of All Sparks.

If he stayed here, there was nothing standing between Shatter and carrying out her lethal promise. The Sector Seven agents watching over them would not be able to do a thing to stop her. But if he got close to Charlie, the humans could discover him and he would be forced to flee, or worse Shatter herself could potentially kill him. If he died, the supply shipments would be left unattended, and in a worst case scenario Shatter would be free to claim them for herself – which included the Hyperpulse Generator she could use to call in a Decepticon army; it would be the beginning of the end for the Autobots. How did one life measure against the fate of his people?

In an earlier time, before the fall of Iacon, he wouldn't have hesitated to leap to Charlie's aid and damn the consequences. He was used to taking big risks to prove himself worthy of the esteem of his fellow Autobots, but with him all alone out here and with so much riding on his success, he couldn't help but be cautious. Did that make him a coward?

He had always wanted to be a hero in a story, completely unafraid to die a glorious death in the heat of battle.

Yet, stories did not reflect reality. The heroes he looked up to in youth could have all cried out in terror at the moment of their offlining.

And that femme, from the very moment he met her, had instilled a sense of fear and vulnerability in his spark that not even Megatron could have managed.

* * *

_**McKinnon Airfield, five months ago**_

_They had loaded him onto a flatbed truck, bound and restrained with his weapons and transformation cog locked down. He didn't even know he had weapons before they were deactivated by the two strangers who had attacked him today. _

_ The canvas flap covering him whipped upward for a moment, revealing a blue muscle car on the road right beside the truck. It was one of **them**, one of his people, the one that had kicked him while he was down. When he first saw them transform on a run towards him, he had been overcome with excitement; they were machine people just like him; finally he could get answers to all of his questions. But such was not to be._

_ Now he was bound to an unknown destination, separated from his friend and with no way of escape._

_ He felt the truck coming to a stop, followed by the distinctive sounds of a transformation emanating from either side of the trailer. A moment later, the tarp was ripped off allowing the afternoon sun to bear down on him until it was eclipsed by the shape of a large blue mech, the distinctive engine cowl of his rotorcraft alt-mode giving him an intimidating hunchbacked appearance._

_ "We will manage the prisoner from here," a deep feminine voice announced, the same one he recalled from the taller of his attackers, the red one. He turned his helm to see her leering down on him from the other side of the trailer. "Bring him."_

_ The mech was freakishly strong, he lifted Bumblebee by the neck strut – snapping the chains and straps holding him down to the bed in the process – without his servo motors giving out so much as a whisper of strain. The features of his helm were minimalist but sharply defined, with plenty of cuts and scrapes on the faceplate behind the grilled mask to indicate a long history of violence and injury. The way he looked at him, it reminded him of one of Charlie's neighbors, a child who would squat in the midday sun with a magnifying glass in hand and a grin on his face as he cooked the defenseless little bugs; right now, Bumblebee felt like one of those bugs._

_ He tried to struggle against the larger mech's grip, but to no avail. If anything Blue seemed to be amused by his efforts as he hoisted him high and carried him through the open door of a building the truck had stopped by._

_ Without further ceremony, Blue threw him against a wall with enough force to crack it, he slumped down to the floor on his aft – his winglets smarting from the force of the impact. He tried to get himself up before Blue slammed his clenched servo down on his helm, forcing him back to the floor._

_ "Stay down," Blue growled. Blue's companion, the red female creature, sauntered over to stand in front of Bumblebee._

_ The girl – femme, his programming corrected – was tall, very tall. If he were standing up the top of his helm would barely come up to the midriff of her chassis, the widened set of her hips and shoulders made her framework appear larger to his optics than she actually was. Bearing that in mind however, the femme was still far from being dainty, she looked like she could break him over her knee if she was so inclined. When she moved it was with a steady poise, smooth and deliberate, no motions wasted. But it was her optics that drew in his full attention, they were red and contracted, closer to orange at the very center, they gleamed with a fierce intelligence in addition to a carefully measured contempt for everything around her that wasn't her partner. When those optics met his he felt deeply unsettled, they were eyes that could see inside him and behold how pathetic and weak he was. _

_ He may not know her, but she most definitely knew him. But what could he have done to make this femme look at him with such disgust? She called him a traitor, perhaps that was the reason behind her ire; he had wronged someone, betrayed even, he felt guilty despite not remembering anything before waking up in Charlie's garage._

_ As his thoughts brought up his only friend his spark shuddered with sudden panic. Charlie! She had been with him when Red and Blue had ambushed them in the desert field just off the road where the humans had initially tried to capture him. She had been far too close to the blast radius of Red's weapon – plasma shock cannon, the tactical center added – and her fragile flesh-form was thrown some distance, in addition to that she had also been hit by the same devices that ultimately incapacitated him. He hoped she was still alive._

_ "We have been waiting to meet you for some time B-127," the femme stated casually, "We heard of you from an acquaintance of yours, we had questions for him he was unable to answer." She leaned down, her lip plates parting to reveal a row of sharp metal teeth, "If you place value in your wretched existence, you would do well to answer us to our satisfaction."_

_ Bumblebee panicked. He couldn't talk! And he was sure he didn't know what they wanted, his missing memory was going to damn him here._

_ "Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry?"_

_ "Yes, and yes," Blue grunted, he turned to the femme, "Can I get started then?" _

_ The femme chuckled and then stepped aside, "By all means."_

_ Blue slammed his pede into Bumblebee's midsection, pushing his frame back against the wall, and he kept it there. His processor was flooded with pain, a warning in his optics flashed that his processing tank was reaching the stress threshold limit as Blue leaned all of his weight forward._

_ "Uncomfortable isn't it?" Blue questioned, his crimson optics burning bright with sadistic satisfaction, "With just the right amount of pressure..." he leaned closer, bearing more weight down on his pede, "… to just the right degree. And in just the right place." He pushed his pede down harder, eliciting a staticy warble of agony from Bumblebee's defiled vocalizer, "Processing tank, transformation cog, which of these will you lose first? Now the Prime! Where is he?!"_

_ Bumblebee couldn't even think past all of the pain flooding his main processor, he couldn't scan through the airwaves to find an answer that would satisfy him. More warnings, his endoframe was deforming, it was buckling! Hairline cracks were forming around his tank casing, fresh waves of pain assaulted him. Then it stopped._

_ Blue's pede lifted off from his lower torso, and the mech stepped back, Red approached but didn't stand in front of him like Blue but placed herself to his left side, lowering herself on one knee to come to his level._

_ "Look upon me," she instructed, warily Bumblebee did so. Up close he could pick out even more details that he had missed at first glance. His tactical computer identified a potential weakness, her neck strut didn't have much reinforcement, it would break with the right amount of leverage; his empathy programming told him that her expression indicated a measure of sympathy, while his spark told him it wasn't genuine. Her digits hooked under his jaw firmly, but not forcefully. She then dropped the pretense of cordiality. _

_ "Where is Optimus Prime?"_

_ Blue's pede lashed out, once more grinding it's rough tread into his abused midsection. Bumblebee lurched forward at the impact with a distorted wail, but he could not look away from Red; she wouldn't let him, her servo gripped his jaw with increased pressure – but not enough to cause him further pain. Red continued to stare down at him imperiously in silent expectation, but her expression conveyed a clear message; if she wouldn't have her answer, she would have his life._

_ "We know that the Autobots plan on establishing a hidden colony, but not where they are going. Prime gave you an assignment before you fled Iacon, doubtlessly he has filled you in on the secret. And now you are going to tell it to me, B-127."_

_ Blue's pede once more upped the pressure, far more sharply than the first time. _'Stop! Stop! I don't know anything!' _he screamed at Red mentally. He didn't know this Optimus Prime, but he wished he did, if only to make the femme happy enough to let him go. _

_ "Uh, excuse me sir, ma'am?" a voice called out from the door. "The Colonel wants a word."_

_ The femme's grip tightened on his jaw, now she actually was hurting him. Her faceplates scrunched into an expression of unmitigated frustration; the whine of a jet turbine filled the room as her optics brightened and contracted into pinpricks. Then as suddenly as it came, the femme's countenance snapped back to it's normal dignified state before she addressed the human calmly._

_ "We are currently engaged in delicate negotiations with the fugitive, human-Simmons; there is nothing more to be discussed," she stated tersely, her narrowed optics boring holes into the comparatively tiny – and easily squished – human intruder. But to Bumblebee that human was easily the most beautiful thing in the entire Universe._

_ "There has been an update," Simmons continued, bravely trying to hold the towering femme's gaze without flinching. "He's come to a decision regarding your earlier request."_

_ Red continued to glare before Bumblebee felt her grip on his helm slacken before her servo released him entirely. She stood up from her kneeling position and turned to address Blue. "We will have to delay the interrogation to a later groon, Dropkick. Until then, make sure our 'guest' is made ready for my return."_

_ Dropkick gave an annoyed grunt before nodding in acquiescence, "As you command, bond-sister." _

_ Red stalked away from Bumblebee, pausing briefly to tap her servo against Dropkick's own before transforming into her ground alt-mode. Bumblebee watched on as Red revved her engine with a bestial roar and took off with a screech of rubber on cement, nearly clipping Simmons as she rolled out of the hangar._

_ "In case you are wondering," Dropkick rumbled, causing Bumblebee to nervously turn his attention back to the mech, "This isn't going to end well for you."_

_ Before Bumblebee could ponder what he meant, Dropkick landed a vicious right hook just above his optic ridge. And at last, mercifully, Bumblebee's processor crashed; it would be hours before he rebooted._

* * *

Those first few klicks with Shatter and her malicious crony had been some of the longest of his entire life-cycle. It unnerved him how easily she had been able to coerce him, it shamed him beyond words how quickly he lost the will to resist her mind games. She had defeated him without even touching him, simply watching and waiting patiently as her partner beat him into scrap, her optics expectant and uncompromising; like his breaking was a foregone conclusion to her. And break he did.

When the second round of the interrogation came to an end, and Shatter bade her partner to kill him, he had panicked. He knew Dropkick was going to draw it out, make him suffer all the way to the bitter end; and in his fear addled mind he clawed for something, anything, that he could give to make Shatter call the brute off. Without even thinking, he had replayed the hololog of Optimus Prime giving him his mission. Like a coward he had sold out his leader, his people, all to save his worthless metal hide.

Sure he had an excuse, he hadn't been himself during that interrogation, his suppressed memory had left him weakened. But it all fell flat in his spark when he tried telling himself that. He still remembered every thought, every bit of pain, and every emotion that had gone through the helm of his lesser self with perfect clarity. How in the Pit was he supposed to make peace with that?

Taking down Dropkick and Shatter was supposed to be his atonement. With the both of them gone he had been able to begin the process of self-forgiveness, and attempt to come to terms with what had happened in the hangar that evening, both the torture and his inadvertent betrayal. He had put the memories of Shatter and the insecurities she had artfully woven in his spark to rest during his isolation, but now that he knew she had been alive all along, it brought back those feelings to the fore.

As much as he wanted to settle this score once and for all, there were too many priorities to sort through at the moment. Besides he had no idea where she could be hiding, and while Earth was over thirty times smaller than Cybertron, it was still too much area for one mech to cover in a reasonable time frame, which was probably why Shatter and Dropkick had relied on humanity to find him.

Then it hit him. The humans. More specifically Sector Seven.

The United States government was actively hunting Shatter _and _him at the very moment. Bumblebee didn't fancy himself an ambassador for his kind, such a task was best left to Optimus Prime - who excelled at such things; but that did not mean he couldn't try to steer Sector Seven closer in the direction of his arch-nemesis, the only question was how he would go about doing that without exposing himself to the organizations less than noble agenda.

He needed to contact Agent Burns.

"Charlie, I think I have an idea. But it's going to take a while, do you trust me?"

_"Always," _she answered.

"Good, I'll get started right away; you hold down the fort until then."

_"Wait Bee, I… well I have questions."_

Bumblebee hesitated for a moment before seating himself back onto the metal bench, "Alright, I'm listening."

There was hesitation on her end before she awkwardly asked, _"What are you?"_

Bumblebee settled in and tried to do his best impression of Optimus, "My name is Bumblebee, formerly B-127. I am an autonomous robotic organism from the planet Cybertron..."

* * *

**Phoenix**

A designation, I now had a designation. A title to distinguish myself from the Whole, a confirmation of my existence. Something close to elation warmed my dimly lit corner in the hibernating processor. If the logic center took note of my vague approximation happiness it gave no sign; it did not even know how to acknowledge my existence, much less react to it.

_Designation: Phoenix_

Those two words, the bare wisps of what I was coiled tightly around them – as if afraid that they would be lost forever in the yawning abyss surrounding me. It gave me a center, something to focus some semblance of an identity for myself. I am more than just a fragment, I was Phoenix.

The logic center was more active than ever now that I had been rescued from the Bad Place. The fiber optic array was now online most of the time, allowing me to appreciate surroundings other than total oblivion. With hydrocarbons having been introduced to my fuel processing system, work was now being done to convert said hydrocarbons into low grade energon. It would not be enough to make my frame fully operational or even enough to uplift the stasis-lock which kept the Whole blissfully incapacitated – but it was a step in that direction. And it would not take much longer before the Whole would come back online.

Then there was my rescuer to consider. The name giver.

I could feel the logic center calculating. Ever since the organic had made contact with my frame, it has been assessing the intruder with fanatical attention to detail.

One: the organic meant no harm

Two: it possessed some degree of skill in the healing sciences

Three: it had intended to take her far away from the Bad Place

These three attributes had compelled the logic center to endow the organic with temporary command clearance. It had been the only option left in that moment, other than wait for my precious remaining energon to run dry trying to defend my frame from organics seeking to dismantle and destroy me. The odds of survival had become so dismal, that the logic center had been left with only choice, to entrust my fate to the whims of an unknown human male. The Whole will probably be mortified when she finds out.

Thinking on the Whole I am left to wonder. Who is she? What kind of life does she lead that could make her suffer through the rigors of stasis lock not once but many times? It bothered me not having access to her memories, she was part of me… and I was part of her, even if she probably doesn't know I exist. If she did, something tells me she would have done something about me by now. Not that it would matter in the long scheme of things, when she woke up I would go back under; this has always been so. But that was okay, the Whole was in the end the Greater between us, and was more entitled to the full measure of whatever Life was.

As for me, I am simply happy that I would not die; not for now at least. My existence may be insignificant next to the femme whose consciousness I sharded from, but I was still grateful to have it. Perhaps some day I would learn what it's like to be truly alive, but until then all I can do is await the inevitable. And as for that human, I will never forget what he has given to me.

I can only hope that the Whole will share in my gratitude when she onlines.

* * *

**Author's Note: I have been getting some odd requests for pairings in the reviews and private messaging. Let me set the record straight; neither Shatter nor Bumblebee will be hooking up with anyone in this story, especially not with each other (Shatter really, _really _wants to kill him painfully for fairly obvious reasons); I am also not going to turn Donny into a Cybertronian, that will completely destroy the narrative I am setting up and would invariably steal the focus from Shatter's story.**

**Also note, I have little patience for Bumblebee speaking through the radio. And neither does Bumblebee, luckily I found a way to get around that!**

**This chapter brings the story up to 50k words, and with that in mind, I feel that rather than string my audience along on an arduous restoration montage over the next few chapters – my original intention – I think I'll have Shatter wake up in the next chapter, just to release the suspense. Besides, I am eager to write in her POVs.**


	8. Preview: Body by Pontiac, Soul by Primus

**Shatter**

'How… how could this happen to us? A mistake… I must have made a mistake...'

_ That line of thought echoed endlessly __through my main processor__ as I hobbled aimlessly across the sandy expanse at the bottom of the San Francisco Bay; a symphony of tactile impulses __signaling__ damage all over my battered frame, most particularly in my left pede – twisted, broken, but fortunately still in one piece. __Experience told me it could be fixed, but not until I was safe and free from the distraction of avoiding humans._

_In between having a container ship ram into me and nearly being blown to bits by my own faulty missile, I was in no shape to continue my fight with Bumblebee. In fact I barely had enough functionality in my systems to dig my way out of the accursed sea vessel, the siren call of stasis lock had been pulling at my circuits ever since I regained my senses after I literally crashed and burned._

_ Though it was excruciating, I had held off on immediately returning to shore. Sector Seven would be reinforcing the immediate area of last contact, if they found me like this, they would subdue me and dismember my frame for their brutish __science experiments; I already had a gist of what Powell was going to do with Bumblebee after we finished with him – I __will __permanently__offline myself before it comes to that._

_The weight of the sea was pressing upon my shoulders, the spinning screws of a dozen ocean bound vessels resounded through my acoustic senses. My battlemask was still fastened shut over my faceplate, the left lens had a crack running through it from shrapnel, but blessedly the optic behind it was un__harmed__. _

'I am defeated… how can this be… what have I done? What failure have I allowed? Dropkick… Blitzwing… brothers… forgive me...'

_The going got progressively harder as I left the deepest part of the bay and trekked up an incline towards the shallows closer to the city. I was far enough away from Brighton Falls that I could finally afford to leave this damnable salt water. From there, I could find shelter and try to come up with another plan to ensure my continued survival and perhaps __a chance at__ re__demption__later down the line._

_Thoughts of vengeance bolstered my resolve. My __processor__ generated image __after image__ of Bumblebee's __puny__ spark being torn out, of Charlie Watson's crushed bones and torn flesh, of this planet burned from orbit until nothing remained but __an ash choked sphere of__ blackened glass. The end of the Resistance, the death of Mankind, my retribution fulfilled. _

_My helm and shoulders cleared the water and I was greeted with the sight of the San Francisco skyline __stretched to either side of the horizon. The darkness of night was just beginning to break, as a small slip of orange light was rising from the east, heralding the coming dawn of a new day. I didn't have much time left. __In front of my was a low wall of stone, rising five feet above the water and ten feet beneath it, and beyond that was a small stretch of parkland sitting between the urban blight of the city, the Bay, and a nearby marina filled mainly with small sailing craft. At this early hour, the park was completely deserted._

_ Perfect._

_My shoulder actuators groaned in protest as they bore my weight over the lip of the sea wall and onto the manicured grass lawn. I doubted my leg could bear my weight outside of the water, so I crawled the rest of the way inland. I paused to let the seawater drain out of my vents and the tears in my chassis before setting my mind onto the next task._

_Transforming with a damaged frame was never an easy experience. In an ideal scenario, I should have been extracted to a safe location and consigned to a medical berth for a long and thorough repair by a medic I trusted, and barred from even attempting a transformation until my specs were all in the green. But seeing as I was all alone on a hostile, __alien__ world with no hope of rescue in the immediate future… it was a risk I had to take._

_My current primary alt-mode was too recognizable, __meaning __that__ on top of transforming I also had to switch __to a completely different disguise__. Fortunately, I have scanned down a small number of human ground vehicles over the course of my stay with Sector Seven, my most recent acquisition was foremost in my __processor__. It was similar enough to the Plymouth in shape, so that the stress of reconfiguration should be reduced compared to what would happen if I tried to transform into a truck or a tank. __Mentally I counted down from a thousand picoklicks before I engaged my primary T-cog._

_My spinal __assembly__ was the first thing to complain. The gyro-linked __vertebrae__ that were so vital to my sense of balance had been peppered with shrapnel from the explosion, I winced in pain as the warped discs separated and __awkwardly__ folded together into subspace as my torso unfolded and my outer mesh plating reshaped itself to properly reflect my chosen disguise. __My shoulder struts separated down the middle as my helm folded down into the main body of the alt-mode, my body smacked into the ground before my front wheels snapped into position, pushing my frame away from the dirt and grass. All the while, my tactile receptors sent shocks of discomfort and pain to my main processor, __causing me to unconsciously slow down the transformation process__. __But the worst had yet to come._

_ My right pede shakily folded into my frame, but my left… warning signals blared in my consciousness, desperately advising me not to carry through with the transformation. Steeling myself, I overrode my damage control system's inhibitor locks, forcing my motive units to complete the alt-form. White hot agony ripped through my super-conductive fiber circuitry. My other six senses seemed to offline in that very moment, my processor tasked too heavily simply trying to perceive the amount of pain I was in to pay anything else further mind. _

'Keep going… keep going… I did not survive just to give up now!'

_Relief flooded my processor as my internal systems check confirmed a full and stable transformation; helping me to banish some of the pain from my awareness. I felt my tires roll backwards as my new alt-mode shifted in reverse down the incline; remembering that the Bay was behind me, I immediately engaged my breaks. Nothing happened. __A little worried now, I tried to turn my front wheels into a hard left to swerve parallel to the sea wall, to my growing horror I found __my__ steering controls unresponsive._

**_Warning! Critical System Error #__909/__Neural __Locomotor__ Control Interface: __Not Responding__. Report to assigned medical officer for emergency assistance._**

_It took me a full nanoklick to register the automated message. But when my processor caught up, my horror turned into complete terror. __Desperately I attempted to reengage my T-cog to revert back to my standard form, it stirred only briefly before it went dormant again, my body was too weak right now to even begin the process._

_ My rear axle cleared the ledge of the sea wall, the undercarriage of my frame scraped against the weathered concrete with a grating shriek, stalling the momentum; for a moment I dared hope that the friction would arrest my momentum and so save me from a watery grave. _

_ It didn't._

_ My tailplate struck the water with the finality of a gong strike, my frame submerging vertically halfway down it's length before righting itself into the horizontal, floating by the grace of a dwindling airpocket inside my cab. _

_I was sinking. __Worse, I was slipping into stasis lock._

_Perhaps this was a just fate. I failed to stop Blitzwing from leaving Cybertron, I failed to protect Dropkick, I failed to destroy Bumblebee, and I have failed to end the war that ha__s__ consumed everything __that__ I have ever cared about. __By Primus, this was it._

_Impotent fury rushed through my circuits one last time as __I committed my last active runtimes to cursing the designations of Bumblebee, Charlie Watson, Starscream, and even __Lord__ Megatron. __May they all rust in the Pit!_

_As the waters once again fully enveloped me, I at long last yielded to the darkness._

**_Stasis lock: engaged. __System s__hutdown commencing in: 3… 2… 1…_**

* * *

**Donald**

The disc grinder left a trail of pitted shiny steel as it weaved back and forth across the Firebird's despoiled undercarriage, sparks and tiny flecks of rust jetted off the point of contact, striking into the heavy leather welding gloves encasing his hands and half of his forearms or pelting the _mostly_ transparent screen of his plastic face shield. He had been at it for over an hour now, his palms were numb from the constant vibrations and his feet were getting sore from standing for too long, but his focus on the task at hand kept his mind from lingering on these discomforts for too long.

The rust hadn't set in all that deep, it gave way easily to the disc of steel wires as if it was little more than a layer of dirt. He was nearly finished, then he could apply rust protection at home or some other shop (he didn't want to risk doing this again), and then he could go about rebuilding the interior.

He worked the grinder over a particularly stubborn patch with slightly more force, a dense shower of sparks flared out of the guard. To his shock, a green arc of static electricity leaped from the undercarriage and struck the tool, forcing Donny to drop it in panic for fear of getting burned.

An expletive loosed from Donny's lips as he jumped back to avoid being injured by the still cycling grinder, staring at it like it was some feral creature. Getting over himself, he moved to retrieve the tool but before he could touch it the Firebird shifted over his head. Terrified, Donny looked up expecting to see the muscle car falling down upon him, but the vehicle had apparently settled.

Then, he heard a sharp report of something big and heavy striking cement behind him.

Donny looked over his shoulder to behold something that caused his brain to stop and start for a long moment.

Hanging down from the other side of the Firebird was a long metal appendage; and at the end of it was a giant hand, the first few segments of it's long skeletal-like fingers brushing against the floor slowly in motion with the limb it was attached to.

The entire length of the arm was covered in thousands of nicks and scratches, from the bare metal to the red painted coverings; the hand was especially mutilated, the segments of the fingers looked ragged and torn – he doubted they would articulate properly with all the warping. The fingers, while long and slender in profile, were as thick around as his wrist, to the point where he could wrap his own hand around the pinkie without his thumb and index touching each other. Not that he was ballsy enough to actually touch the damn thing.

Not taking his eyes off it, he grabbed a socket wrench off a nearby metal box cart laden with tools and slowly stepped towards the oddity. Kneeling down as close as he dared to it, he slowly nudged the hand with the wrench. Nothing happened.

Stepping out from under the car and around the appendage, his eyes traveled up it's flacid length to where it joined the vehicle. At first he thought the car had been damaged in some way until he took in the rest of the picture.

The entire front left side of the Firebird appeared to have pulled itself apart, a section of the wheel well and the fender had been pulled down, fixed to where the arm's shoulder would be. The wheel itself had been pushed completely out of the well, canted at a forty-five degree angle to where the tire's inward facing wall was touching the hood. The entire left side of the square jawed bumper had folded in on itself like an accordion, the headlamps on the same side as well as part of the grill also appeared to have moved closer to the center, which had been pushed inwards, where the small Pontiac badge had been split cleanly down the middle.

This… this was beyond his experience.

There were no signs of stressed or torn metal, all the disjointed sections had parted cleanly from one another. It was almost as if the car was shifting… into something else.

No sooner than he had completed that thought, the 'Firebird' shifted on the lift bars once again. A loud reverberating whine rose up from the suspended muscle car, building up in pitch by the second. The pungent scent of ozone flooded his nose and soured on his tongue, he vaguely noted the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were standing on end. Donny was instinctively backing away from the vehicle as the whine climbed into a high note.

Arcs or green tinted electrical discharge were racing up and down the length of the Firebird, with bands so bright that they were leaving afterimages in his eyes, forcing him to shield his face as the light grew with the noise. Then a loud crack shot through the air, made even louder from the confined space, that it sounded like someone had fired a large caliber rifle right next to his head. Donny collapsed to the ground, clutching his ears, for the moment unable to even hear himself scream. The lights had gone out, blanketing the entire shop in near pitch darkness, his muddled head was consumed by a piercing ringing noise that drowned out all other sounds.

He would have continued to lie there in agony were it not for him feeling the odd tremors coming up from the cement floor into his back. He could hear bizarre noises over the ringing which was slowly subsiding as his tortured eardrums gradually popped back into place. It was completely dark in the room, save for the small amounts of illumination coming from between the blinds covering the garage windows. It was barely enough to make out vague shapes of shop machinery placed between the five service lots, it was just enough to discern movement just in front of him.

For a moment, he thought his boss had come in to investigate the ruckus caused by his impossible car (though he was sure by now that calling it a car was somewhat inaccurate). That notion was quickly dispelled when he fathomed the massive size of the thing that was rising in the darkness in front of him, it's great silhouette towered over him by a huge margin. The darkness was suddenly broken by a pair of bright blue lights, which rose up lurchingly from the ground and loomed over his prone form. The floor reflected back just enough of the soft illumination to define the shape of the figure in front of him; it was at least thrice his height, two arms and two legs, huge shoulders and a narrow waist.

_ Is that my car?_

In that moment, a sense of horrified clarity washed over him. All the anomalies, the inconsistencies he had noted over the past several days working on the Firebird, they all came back to him in that moment. His Firebird had somehow _transformed _into this strange, unfathomable giant; all this time, it had been some kind of robot in disguise.

For a moment nothing happened. It just stood there, it's eyes looking blankly towards the bay door behind him. He found himself drawn to the apparition's eyes, he had never seen such a hard and clear shade of luminous blue before. They were hypnotic, beautiful even. The shape of the head they were attached to canted downward, and their gazes met. Then, like a switch had been flipped, those large soulful eyes contracted into dots and flashed into a violent shade of red and a low brassy growl filled the shop then the shape lurched forward.

It wasn't until the light of those beady – now red – eyes illuminated a familiar mangled metal hand reaching out towards him that Donny's limbs finally started responding to the commands his freaked out brain was sending them. He lunged out of the way before it could grab him and pushed himself to his feet. He needed to get out of here and away from Phoenix, unfortunately he still couldn't see a damn thing in the darkness. Looking over his shoulder, he could see those eyes moving closer and could hear the heavy reports of giant metal feet on cement, one louder than the other. Judging by it's lurching motion, the hand wasn't the only thing that was damaged.

The garage had two exits, one was at the back of the garage on the left side, but the killer robot was standing between him and the door; the other was on the right wall and was the furthest away and lead to the service desk and the reception area.

Through his years of working here, Donny had a solid mental map of the garage floor. There was a clearance space running six feet in front of the doors that spanned from end to end. It was a straight run from here to the wall, then a left to the door. The lurching mechanical monstrosity was hot on his heels however.

Making a turn where he judged the wall to be, he caught sight of the creature's blazing eyes in his peripheral vision – hot on his heels. His heart seizing in his chest, Donny lunged towards where he guessed the door to be.

Only for his foot to snag a loose air hose on the floor.

"No!" He cried, before hitting the smooth cement. On his knees, he cast a frightened look back… oh no. The machine was right on top of him!

He scrambled forwards, trying to regain his footing as he did so only to run face first into the lobby door. Elation mixed with pain and desperation as he quickly grasped the handle, but it was suddenly torn from his grasp as the door swung outward and a blinding light burned into his eyes. His heart skipped a beat as he registered the sight before him.

Julius stood before him, flashlight in hand and a look of confusion on his face.

"Davis? Are you alright?" He asked, concerned, then his gaze shifted over Donny's shoulder and his brows jumped up. "Why is your car parked so close to the door?"

Donny turned his eyes back behind him, and his brain almost shut down in disbelief. The Firebird was sitting steady right behind him. It's bumper no more than a foot from the back of his knees. Breathless, Donny gaped back at his employer; feeling as if he had just come out of a fevered dream. Heart hammering he struggled to articulate himself.

"Th-the car! It- it was-" he struggled before a thought struck him.

He couldn't tell Julius the truth – he wouldn't believe him – and the Firebird would almost certainly kill them both if he tried. He had to make something up, and fast.

"I needed to switch spots," He began, "But then there was that noise and the lights went out, it freaked me out and I lost control for a bit." He didn't like taking advantage of Sawyer's general gullibility and tendency to take things at face value, traits that his employees took constant advantage of to his and the establishment's detriment, but damn it if that thing thought he was a threat… this was for the best.

Julius stared at him for a long moment before sighing, "Must have been a _bad transformer._"

Donny let out a nervous chuckle at the unintended double meaning to that statement. He was simply glad that the Firebird seemed content to let them both live – for now.

"It's probably best that you be heading home, Donny," he continued absently, probably still in shock of the disturbance, "Get in your car, I'll get the door open."

Go home. In the car. The one that barely half a minute ago was trying to turn him into roadkill.

Naturally, Donny's first instinct was to get the Hell out of the shop and run for the hills; it was the smart thing to do. But that would mean leaving Sawyer to the mercy of the 'Firebird', and as much as the idea of dying petrified him, Donny knew he would be ashamed of himself later for it.

While Sawyer was using the pull chain to manually raise the bay door, Donny stepped to the side of the Firebird and set his hand on the hood, he could feel the vehicle vibrate aggressively under his palm, "I don't know what you are..." he whispered, casting a glance back to his boss to check that he wasn't paying attention, "Or what you were planning to do to me, but if you want to get out of here without causing a scene I can help you… but only if you promise not to kill anyone, deal?"

_'Please don't kill me, please don't kill me, please don't kill me...'_

The robot in disguise stopped vibrating. Donny held his breath, frightfully aware that his life – and that of his employer – was now on the table; a moment later the driver's side door swung open seemingly of it's own accord. Donny released his breath.

"Thanks."

* * *

**Sorry for the wait. This is the latter (and most relevant) part of the next chapter that I have been stumbling through writers block over for almost a year now. The other part will come in time as I work on the succeeding chapters to get this story moving again. The Next chapter will formally introduce our protagonists.**


End file.
